《南华真经义海纂微》Vol. 21

The principle of non-dependence and spontaneous transformation becomes clear here: it is nothing more than vigorous yang in motion, following one another in succession. There is no intention behind it, so it is not deliberate, and no one knows why it happens. It is like the cicada's shell or the snake's sloughed skin: the shadow resembles the form, but is not the form itself. Taken to its limit, what we now call "having something to depend upon" ultimately resolves into non-dependence, and the principle of spontaneous transformation is revealed. It is simply vigorous yang in motion, following one another — and since there is no intention, there is nothing to inquire into.

Lu Huiqing's commentary: Wangliang (the penumbra) arises from the shadow; it is the faint yin outside the shadow, not merely a single layer, hence it is called "old man" (sou), describing how it moves along with a person. The shadow's bowing, rising, walking, and stopping merely follow the person — how would it know the reason? The body has a shadow, just as the cicada has its shell and the snake its sloughed skin, yet the shadow is not that shell or sloughed skin. When the shadow encounters sunlight or firelight, it gathers and appears; when it meets darkness or night, it alternately vanishes. Though these are the conditions by which it becomes a shadow, it has no consciousness — how could it know that it depends on anything? The sun, fire, darkness, and night on which it depends cannot even be called "having something to depend upon," much less that which is more fundamentally depended upon. That which is depended upon is the body from which the shadow arises. From wangliang's non-dependence, we know the shadow has no dependence; from the shadow's non-dependence, we know that which gives rise to the shadow also has no dependence, and thus is not bound by the body. When the other comes and goes, I come and go with it; when the other is stirred by vigorous yang, I am stirred along with it. None of this is myself — what is there to question?

"Susou" describes the restless, unsettled look of many Wangliang (faint secondary shadows); "why bother asking further" means there is no point in pressing the question. Whatever things the creator of things makes complete all depend on something, yet they themselves do not know why it is so. A cicada shell resembles a cicada, a snake slough resembles a snake, and a shadow resembles a body—yet none of these is the cicada, the snake, or the body itself. Where fire and the sun give light, the shadow gathers there; in gloom and moonless night where there is no light, the shadow hides away. That is what is meant by "I too have something I depend on"; how much more so when the body itself has further dependencies—why ask at all? The point is dependence on zaohua (the spontaneous transforming work of nature). When the body comes, I come with it; when the body goes, I go with it; when the body stirs vigorously in yang activity, I stir vigorously with it. All of this is simply following whatever it depends on and being thus on one's own—where is anything worth pursuing in questions?

One lamp, one shadow; ten lamps, ten shadows. The more lamp-shadows multiply, the more faint secondary shadows (weiyin) multiply as well. If one asks whether bowing, rising, walking, and stopping are due to the body or arise from the shadow on its own—in its movement and stillness, presence and absence, the reason is unknown. Shadow and faint shadow have shape yet do not obstruct things; cicada armor (channjia, the cast-off shell) and snake slough ( shed skin) have material form but no living spirit. Before shedding, there are only the snake and the cicada; after shedding, the shell and slough exist on their own. Thus shadow and body do not generate each other, and neither cicada nor snake ever turns back to care for its cast-off skin. Worldly people say the body produces the shadow and the shadow produces the faint shadow—yet a shadow appears when light gathers from sun and fire, and vanishes or hides as one alternates between shade and dark night—what has that to do with the body as such? In brightness a shadow is born, as if there were something waited upon (a dependency); in darkness the shadow disappears, as if there were nothing waited upon. Coming and going in motion may be pulled by the other party, yet the response involves no deliberate intent; the principle rests entirely in oneself—what is there to reproach or question?

Yan Zhai Kou Yi (Lin Xi Yi’s commentary on the Zhuangzi) states that sou sou (pronounced xiao) describes something that seems to be there and yet seems not to be. Shao means roughly or in outline. The point is: although I exist in this way, I do not really know why. When the cicada transforms, its shell remains; when the snake sheds, its skin is left behind. Treat the moving body as the cicada or snake, and the shadow as the abandoned shell or sloughed skin—they look alike but are not the same. When things meet the sun or fire, the shadow gathers and appears; on cloudy days or in dark night, it disappears. Bi refers to the bodily form. The shadow asks: Is the bodily form really what I depend on? Yet the body’s movement depends on something else in turn, hence “how much more so that which has a dependency.” The body moves through qiang yang (strong yang)—yang energy in ceaseless motion—and the shadow moves with it. Strong yang is not something the body itself knows; why ask me? This passage agrees with the Qi Wu Lun (“Equalizing Things,” a chapter of the Zhuangzi), except that it adds sun, fire, and strong yang.

All things under heaven that have physical form necessarily cast a shadow—this everyone knows. Beyond the shadow there is still a faint, dim layer called wangliang (the hazy fringe at the edge of a shadow, hard to make out clearly), which most people never notice. Because the shadow itself is already dim and indistinct, and wangliang clings to it and mingles with it in obscurity, overlapping shadows appear in confusion—hence the talk of “many wangliang.” Wangliang in relation to bodily form is like the seven emotions (joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, hatred, desire) in relation to the heart: when the heart cannot be master and the emotions run unchecked, the person is instead harried by them; when the shadow is unclear and wangliang are many, the shadow is in turn interrogated by them. Yet what the shadow depends upon—how could wangliang know that? And what the heart truly rests upon—how could the seven emotions establish it? This is speaking of the mutual arising of things: they seem to depend on something, yet may exist or not; they are neither produced by another thing nor waiting on something else—a figure for the moment the body is first formed and thought first stirs. The meaning is extremely subtle; it is what earlier sages had not put into words.

The shadow is born from the body; without sunlight or firelight it cannot be seen, so the two seem mutually dependent. Yet though sun and fire are bright, without a body there is no shadow—fundamentally this comes from duhua (each thing transforming naturally on its own, without being arranged by external causes). Shadow and body advance and stop without parting—the closest pair within one person—so their motion and rest must have a ruler. People live this every day yet do not know it; that wangliang should question the shadow is hardly strange. On the Equality of Things says, “As if there were a true ruler, yet one cannot find its trace”—precisely this point. The so-called true ruler is the lord of duhua: the myriad things and myriad shapes are bred and moved through it; dependence and being/non-being both arise from here. If one can truly turn inward and seek, and in the indistinct glimpse light and hear harmony, the principle of duhua becomes clear and doubt about wangliang dissolves.

Qiangyang means that a person receives the transforming qi of creation, and can move the body and drive external things. When qi gathers there is form; when qi disperses there is extinction—only a temporary lodging. If one knows the lord of duhua, the true self endures; the gathering and scattering of form is not worth pursuing—how much less the faint yin outside the shadow.

Yangzi was traveling south toward Pei; Laozi was going west into the state of Qin. They agreed to meet on the outskirts and encountered each other in Liang. On the road Laozi looked up at the sky. When things gather they exist; when they scatter they are exhausted—only temporary lodging. If one knows the lord of duhua, the true self endures; gathering and scattering need not be questioned again—how much less the faint yin outside the shadow.

Yangzi Ju (Yang Zhu’s style name) was traveling south toward Pei, while Old Dan (Laozi) was heading west toward Qin. They agreed to meet in the suburbs and only encountered each other when they reached Liang. On the road Laozi looked up to heaven and sighed: “At first I thought you could be taught; now I see you cannot.” Yangzi Ju did not reply. When they reached the inn, he offered water for washing and towel and comb, left his shoes outside the door, and crawled forward on his knees, saying: “A moment ago your disciple wished to ask the master something, but you had no leisure on the road, so I did not dare; now that there is time, may I ask why?” Laozi said: “Your bearing is inflated and your gaze is outward—who would want to stay with you? What is most pure white seems to hold dirt; one whose virtue is vast seems to fall short.” Yangzi Ju immediately changed his expression and said: “I respectfully receive your instruction.” When he had gone there, the people at the inn saw him off; the innkeeper himself laid out the mat, the hostess handed him towel and comb, those sharing the room gave up their seats, and those warming themselves at the stove moved away from the fire. When he returned, the people at the inn were competing with him for seats.

Guo Xiang said: “Suīsuī xūxū” describes a domineering manner; people keep their distance out of fear. He displayed himself as different from others, so they avoided him; once he dropped his arrogance, they contended with him for seats.

Lü Huiqing said: Spiritual self-importance and standing apart from others were exactly what made the inn folk welcome and send him off—hence Laozi’s sigh. This is the same principle as when Lie Yukou’s sharpness showed outward and shoes filled the doorway outside, so Boyin Wuren left.

Lin Yidu said: Ziju is Yang Zhu’s style name. Offering water, towel, and comb means purifying the body; removing shoes and kneeling means humility. Yet pride had already shown on the outside—who would still want to share company with him? Laozi admonished him with the sage’s knowing the white yet keeping to the black, not filling himself up or acting grand—hence “most white seems to hold dirt; great virtue seems insufficient.” After hearing this, Ziju awakened. On the way there people yielded seats and the stove out of respect for his outward reserve; after hearing the Way he dropped that bearing and no longer showed special marks, so others no longer knew how to honor him in that way.

Chen Bixu (Chen Jingyuan) said: “Xūxū” is a haughty look. On the way there his demeanor was overly solemn and inspired awe; on the return he looked like an ordinary person, so people forgot he was special.

Yizhai (Lin Xiyi's style name) said: “Suixu” means a guarded, self-displaying demeanor—it shows that the split between things and self has not been forgotten, as if one still cannot live at ease among others. The innkeeper is the master of the lodge; yang is tending the fire and cooking. Yielding the seat and staying away from the stove are both marks of respect. When everyone vies for a seat with him, he no longer feels there is anything especially worthy of honor; this means he has attained the restraint and transformation Lao Dan (Laozi) taught—holding back and hiding his light—so others treat him as an ordinary person.

When you stand out as different, who will want to share a room with you? Those who are spotless in conduct are often stained by others, so one hides brilliance and seems to bear filth; those whose virtue is great are often diminished by others, so one stays humble and seems not yet sufficient. That is how to preserve oneself. You now do the opposite, so you cannot be taught. When Ziju (Yang Ziju) heard this admonition, he was ill at ease and his expression changed—clearly he had repented in his heart. When he went back, the innkeeper welcomed him into the house. The master arranged his seat himself; the wife held towel and comb—meaning the whole household honored him; the guests left their seats and the cook moved away from the stove—everyone was astonished. When he returned again, the lodgers vied for seats with him—showing that artificial display was gone while what was genuine remained, so people forgot the crude outward marks of respect. This is why the ancients could walk among beasts without scattering them and among birds without breaking their ranks.

This chapter takes “Allegorical Tales” (Yuyan) as its title, evoking how Master Nanhua (Zhuangzi) crossed water without wetting his feet: feeling he had already said too much, he feared later generations would cling to outward forms and thereby create harm, so with each step he swept away the footprint behind him. Yuyan and zhongyan (speech that carries weight by citing authority) are both expedients—borrowed voices and borrowed events—to say what could not otherwise be said. Zhiyan (goblet words that shift with circumstance and hold to no single fixed side) are like water in a cup: contained so it does not spill, yet when it flows out it arises from the center and stays upright, so one may speak them day after day without wearying the listener. Same and different, right and wrong—each keeps its place. Speech born from “no speech” is speech that is, in effect, no speech at all. To say “it is so” or “it may be” is only to take or leave among the inclinations of the myriad things—who knows that this is inherently so or inherently permissible? Therefore one must reach the point of no longer speaking before sameness (qitong) is truly achieved.

Alas, as the age declined, people no longer trusted him; he could not put his aims into practice in his own time, yet still hoped to leave a lesson for those to come. Fearing that later readers might not truly understand, he lodged his meaning in words the world already respected, so that trust might be won—leading people from allegory to seek the real, from the margin to enter the subtle, with the same practical outcome.

The narrative then traces how Confucius’s conduct changed year by year: at first he thought himself right, then later thought himself wrong. Even what seemed “right” to him at the time could not stay unchanged—how then could one demand that posterity believe it fixed and forever? Zengzi served in office twice and his heart changed twice; inner attachment remained, and joy and grief showed on the surface—whether he acted for his parents or for salary, it was the same. As for those who could awaken upon hearing a teaching, like Ziyou (Yan Chengzi you), within a year he attained plain genuineness and in the end reached great subtlety; day by day the heart grew emptier and stiller, day by day the Dao gathered. Yuyan, zhongyan, and zhiyan all belong to a realm that follows transformation and passes on without getting stuck.

Next, the text treats the being and non-being of a shadow and wangliang (the faint penumbra beyond the shadow), and the mutual dependence of body and shadow—all to show that the wonder of creation cannot be exhausted by inquiry. If a person can fill out what creation has given and does not midway break or block it, then this unfathomable numinous clarity within oneself is likewise so.

At the end, someone glares in pride—who would share a mat with him? After receiving instruction and returning to the lodge, those who lived with him competed with him for seats. Ear hears, heart understands—all in a phrase. Who says that carrying the Dao to show posterity excludes those who, having caught the fish, forget the snare (de yu wang quan—grasping the meaning and setting aside the tool)?

I once read Su Wen’gong (Su Shi)’s “Record of the Zhuangzi Ancestral Hall.” He held that the end of the “Yuyan” chapter should connect to the opening of “Lie Yukou,” and he rejected the four chapters “Rang Wang,” “Dao Zhi,” “Shuo Jian,” and “Yu Fu.” Merging two chapters into one meaning may be defensible; discarding four chapters goes too far. I infer his displeasure: “Rang Wang” is cluttered and repetitive in doctrine; “Dao Zhi” rebukes Confucius with seeming excess; “Shuo Jian” resembles the persuasions of the vertical-and-horizontal strategists; “Yu Fu” contains words that seem to slight the sages—so they were not adopted by Su. Yet the “Ancestral Hall Record” also says that Zhuangzi in fact affirmed Confucius, only not affirming him in the wording—outwardly pushing away, inwardly assisting—showing that Su already saw Zhuangzi’s intent to speak in order to remedy the age’s ills; why then fuss over such rough traces?

On my own examination, these four chapters, compared with the inner and outer sections, seem somewhat uneven, yet their aim does not stray from the root. Authors necessarily differ in refinement and in emphasis; perhaps disciples added and continued the text without preserving full purity, hence their placement at the end of the miscellaneous chapters. Readers may grasp the meaning for themselves; there is no need for prolonged dispute, lest later generations be left in doubt.

From Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the True Scripture of Southern Florescence, fascicle 93 (compiled by Chu Boxiu in the Southern Song, included in the Imperially Commissioned Complete Library in Four Branches), what follows is the opening of the miscellaneous chapter Abdicating Kingship in the Zhuangzi.

Yao offered the realm to Xu You, an ancient recluse; Xu You did not accept. Yao then offered it to Zizhou Zhifu, an ancient worthy. Zizhou Zhifu said: “To have me as Son of Heaven would still be tolerable—but I am afflicted with a deep, hidden illness that must be treated first; I have no leisure to govern the realm. Though the realm is the weightiest of things, it must not be allowed to harm one’s life; how much less should lesser things do so? Only one who does not treat the realm as something precious can be entrusted with it.”

Shun offered the realm to Zizhou Zhibo. Zizhou Zhibo also said: “I have a deep, hidden illness that must be treated first; I cannot attend to governing the realm. Though the realm is a weighty vessel, it cannot be exchanged for life.” This is how a person of the Dao differs from the worldly.

Shun again offered the realm to Shan Juan, an ancient hermit. Shan Juan said: “I dwell between Heaven and Earth: in winter I wear furs, in summer fine hemp and ramie; in spring I plow, which suits moving the body, and in autumn I harvest, which suits resting. When the sun rises I work; when it sets I rest. I wander freely between Heaven and Earth, and my mind is full and at ease. Why should I trouble myself with the realm? How pitiable—you do not understand me!” With that he left, entered the deep mountains, and no one knew where he went.

Shun offered the realm to a farmer of Shihu, his friend. The farmer of Shihu said: “To be lord is truly exhausting—nothing but one who strains every nerve. He considered Shun’s virtue still incomplete.” Thereupon the husband shouldered their bundles, the wife carried goods on her head, and hand in hand they walked toward the sea, never to return in their lifetimes.

Great King Danfu, ancestor of the Zhou people (also known as Gugong Danfu), dwelt in Bin. The Di people attacked. He sent them furs and silks—they would not accept; dogs and horses—they would not accept; pearls and jade—still they would not accept. What the Di wanted was the land. Great King Danfu said: “To live as another’s elder brother yet have his younger brother killed, to live as another’s father yet have his son killed—I cannot bear this. All of you stay and live on in peace. Whether you are my subjects or the Di’s subjects, what difference is there? I have heard: do not harm those who are nourished for the sake of what nourishes them.” So he took up his staff and left. The people followed him in an unbroken stream until they established a state at the foot of Mount Qi. Great King Danfu may be said to have been able to value life. One who values life, even if rich and honored, does not harm the body for the sake of sustenance; even if poor and lowly, does not burden the self for gain. People today who hold high office and noble rank treat the loss of rank as supremely grave and lightly throw away their lives at the sight of profit—are they not muddled?

The people of Yue killed their ruler for three generations in succession. Prince Sou was troubled by this and fled into Dancave. With no ruler in Yue, they could not find Prince Sou and tracked him to the cave. Prince Sou refused to come out; the men of Yue smoked him out with mugwort and sent a carriage adorned with jade to receive him. Prince Sou took the carriage rope and climbed in, then cried to Heaven: “Lordship, O lordship—can you not leave me alone?” Prince Sou did not hate being ruler; he hated the calamities that lordship brings. In this respect he may be said not to have harmed life for the sake of the state—which is precisely why the people of Yue wanted to make him their ruler.

Guo Xiang’s commentary is terse and not fully developed.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary: In the closing years of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou, fathers and sons and brothers contended for the realm and killed one another. So-called scholars often risked death and treated their own lives lightly to win profit, salary, and favor. That is exactly why the chapter “Yielding the Throne” (Rang Wang) was written. Figures such as Xu You and Zhifu would not trade the realm for their lives. Yang Xiong held that the sage Yao was extremely solemn in ceding the throne to Shun, which shows he did not look down on Xu You. What does “solemn” mean here? Was it not that Shun underwent many tests before Yao handed him the realm? That is not the point. What mattered for Yao in gaining Shun was not the repeated trials; the trials only put him on a par with others and made his talent visible to all—what is called “displaying it before people.” If Xu You had not turned away from Yao’s intent, who could say that, after the same testing, he might not have matched Shun?

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Worry stored in the heart is called “hidden anguish” (youyou). Zhifu would not let the realm damage his life; Zhibo would not exchange his life for the realm. They only differed from common custom and had not yet reached a truly unforced mind. Shan Juan’s image stands for the depth of one who holds the great Dao; the farmers of Shihu are skilled at shutting themselves in and thickly nourishing the root. Shan Juan speaks for his own preservation; the farmers of Shihu fault the ruler’s conduct and find his virtue still incomplete. Neither had yet reached ease in whatever comes. Grand King Danfu fled the Di and would not harm the people for land—one may say he understood zunsheng (honoring life). Where there is a body, nurture cannot be absent; where there is life, burdens cannot be absent. The wealthy and noble love to nurture, and over-nurture harms the body; the poor and lowly are pressed by gain, and chasing gain too far injures the form. Whoever can escape both harms counts as honoring life. Prince Sou abandoned the throne—one may say he would not let the state harm his life; though not dragged by things outside, he had not yet forgotten love of people and love of self, still had ties, and had not reached leaving no trace. All of this is only the sage’s leftover traces, not his authentic ground. The sage’s authentic ground is: forget life, and life is nowhere incomplete; forget nurture, and nurture is nowhere lacking. Even if the realm and state were placed in his hands, it would merely be that the time and circumstance happened to align—what injury would there be?

Bixu zi (Chen Jingyuan) commentary: To set the realm aside still leaves various tracks of action. These too are only the sage’s leftover traces, not his authentic ground. The sage’s authentic ground is forgetting life while life is everywhere whole, forgetting nurture while nurture is everywhere sufficient. Even when the realm and state are entrusted to him, it is only a momentary conjunction—what harm is there?

Bixu (Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan) comments: Someone who can set the realm aside as if it were none of his concern cannot be touched by ordinary misfortune; someone who truly values his own life will not be led astray by external things. Only when the mind is open and unobstructed and the heart empty and still can one lodge oneself in the four seas. The greatest De of Heaven and Earth is “to give life”—that is what the perfected person holds most precious, so he would not trade his life for dominion over the realm. Coarse fur clothing and thin gruel are enough to satisfy him; who would bustle after external things and thereby harm his original simplicity? Therefore the upright and unyielding refuse to bow to others, while those of deep virtue can honor those below them. Maintaining firm integrity and laboring diligently serves the building of great achievement; drifting away and never returning serves to awaken the greedy and base. The land exists to nourish the myriad things, and the myriad things exist to sustain the people. To fight over what the land produces and in doing so harm the people it was meant to sustain— the sage cannot bear that. The rich and noble weigh loss heavily; their fault is that indulgence injures the body. The poor and lowly treat loss of life lightly; their fault is that profit wears down the person. Better to withdraw and preserve oneself than to become a ruler and invite disaster.

Yanzhai (Lin Xiyi) says: The “illness of hidden sorrow” is like a hidden ailment. Only one who does not treat the realm as his private affair can be entrusted with the realm; though he holds it, he does not possess it as his own. Juanjuan (quán) describes exhausting oneself in toil; baoli means laboring diligently with effort. The two passages on Yao and Shun have no separate closing remark; the meaning is the same as before. “Used to sustain” refers to the people whom the land nourishes. Those who value life hold themselves weighty and external things light. This satirizes people of the time who feared losing what they had gained. Only one with no intention of being ruler can be entrusted with the state—hence the people of Yue wanted Prince Sou to come out and be their lord.

In his Guanjian, Chu Baxiu says: Heaven and Earth give birth to sages in order to continue the transmission of the Dao, clarify human relations, assist Heaven and Earth, and nurture the myriad things; whether the position of ruler exists or not is not part of this purpose. Yet when praise and blame alike converge upon someone, he sometimes cannot decline, and this is only a temporary trust. Even if he occupies the exalted rank of ruler of a great state and possesses the wealth of all within the four seas, he still dwells in earthen steps and thatched roofs, wears coarse clothes and eats simple food, and does not feel that his power is weighty or his station lofty. Because gaining the position did not come from his inner heart, being in that place is not taken as glory, and yielding it is as easy as slipping off shoes. Nothing is greater than the empire; one who can give the empire away has nothing left to contend for. How can the realm stored in such a person’s breast be measured? As for being offered the empire yet refusing to accept it, how could one without inner mastery accomplish that? The virtue and achievement of Yao, Shun, and Grand King (the Zhou ancestor Gugong Danfu) need not be praised again, yet the lofty integrity of those recluses could not be fully revealed except by Zhuangzi. Reading closely their words of yielding, the gist is merely to treat external things lightly and hold life dear, to value the inner and slight the outer, to delight in the way of the sages and to loathe the calamities that come with being ruler. They would disdain to accept the empire even when it was offered to men of old; how then would they imitate those of later ages who boast and deceive, rely on violence, violate constant principle, overstep their proper bounds, and grasp at power in vain? The phrase “the ailment of hidden sorrow”—according to this chapter as cited in Lüshi Chunqiu, Gao You’s commentary says: you means hidden; in the Book of Odes, “as if there were hidden sorrow” carries this sense. It means that one is anxious because one’s own person is not yet fully cultivated—how could there be leisure to govern the empire? Therefore one differs from the world. Grand King fled the Di people because he could not bear to harm the people; Prince Sou (the Yue lord’s son) fled his countrymen because he feared that the throne would harm him. One who fears harming the people can cherish himself; one who fears harming himself can also cherish the people. The people of Yue wanted Prince Sou as ruler because his virtue was conspicuous and he could not escape notice, and the multitude followed his fame like ants. As for the highest De, it does not display itself as De, and the people cannot name it—such a person can neither be benefited by profit nor harmed by injury, and stands yet higher. Though the Nanhua Zhenjing (that is, the Zhuangzi) does not exhaust this meaning in words, the intent lies here; reading the following chapters makes it clear.

Han and Wei were disputing land on their border. Zihua Zi, a worthy who had come to remonstrate, called on Han Zhao Xi Hou, the ruler of Han, and seeing him troubled in countenance said: “Suppose someone were to write before you an inscription that read: ‘If you grasp with the left hand, the right is fei—severed and useless; if you grasp with the right, the left is fei. Yet whoever grasps shall possess the realm.’ Would you grasp?” Zhao Xi Hou said, “I would not.” Zihua Zi said, “Good. From this it is clear that the two arms matter more than the realm, and the body matters more still than the two arms. Han is already far lighter than the realm, and the land you now fight over is lighter still than Han. Yet you wear out the body and harm life, grieving because you cannot obtain it.” Zhao Xi Hou said, “Well said! Many have advised me, but I have never heard this.” Zihua Zi may be said to have understood what is heavy and what is light.

Guo Xiang’s commentary passes this over without discussion.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary holds that Zhao Xi Hou could heed Zihua Zi and treat the disputed land lightly, yet compared with those who would not trade life for the realm, he still ranks lower.

Yidu (Lin Yidu) comments: “Fei” means cut off so as to be of no further use. How could one disregard the arms to take that inscription and thereby possess the realm? The ruler said he would not take it. Thus the two arms outweigh the realm, and the body outweighs the two arms. Han is already lighter than the realm; the land in dispute is lighter still than Han. Now, on the contrary, one frets the body and injures life, grieving at not obtaining it—casting away what is heaviest to struggle for what is lightest. Is that not foolish?

Bixu (Chen Jingyuan), citing the Laozi—“Which is dearer, name or person? Which counts for more, person or goods?”—asks why one should bitterly fight over barren border land. The Huainanzi (also called Honglie jie) says: slaughtering the warhorse to hunt the fox, clutching two soft-shelled turtles yet losing the divine tortoise, severing the right arm to wrest a single hair, breaking Mo Ye (the famed ancient sword) to compete for knife and awl—all are failures to know heavy from light.

Yanzai (Lin Xiyi) says: the inscription is like a contract. Even if grasping it could win the realm, one who cherishes the self would still refuse—how much more so when Han is lighter than the realm, yet one now grieves at not obtaining it to the point of fretting the body and harming life; that is worse than losing an arm.

The Marquis of Han (ruler of the state of Han) was disputing with Wei over a strip of border land that had been encroached upon. The ground was actually very small, yet he wore a face full of worry. This is treating what is slight as weighty and what is truly weighty as slight. When his ministers came to remonstrate, he would not listen. Hua Zi (Zi Huazi, a worthy of the time) had an audience and remonstrated with effective method: he set up an inscription as a parable—if you grasp with the left hand, the right is crippled; if you grasp with the right, the left is crippled. Where there is one benefit there must be one harm; you cannot have both. One has only to weigh benefit and harm for oneself, then decide what to take and what to leave. The Marquis of Han knew that the arms matter more than the realm under heaven, and the body matters more than the arms, yet he did not know that the state of Han is far slighter than all under heaven, and the disputed encroachment is slighter still than the state of Han. When one can see clearly what is light and what is heavy, the right order of things appears. The Marquis heard the remonstrance and at once awakened, understanding that light and heavy ought to be thus. The Marquis of Han may be called wise; Hua Zi was truly discerning.

The lord of Lu heard that Yan He was a man who had attained the Dao and sent someone ahead with silks and gifts to invite him respectfully. Yan He lived in a humble lane, wore coarse hemp clothes, and fed cattle himself. When the envoy arrived, Yan He came out to answer in person. The envoy asked: Is this Yan He’s home? Yan He said: This is indeed my home. The envoy presented the silks and gifts. Yan He said: I fear you have mistaken the person and will bring blame on the envoy; better go back and verify first. The envoy returned to inquire and came again to seek him, but could no longer find him. Someone like Yan He truly despises wealth and rank. Thus it is said: the essence of the Dao is used to cultivate the person; what remains is used to order the state; the dregs are used to order all under heaven. Seen in this light, the achievements of emperors and kings are merely the leftover affairs of sages—not what is used to preserve the body and nourish life. Yet most gentlemen of the world today harm themselves and cast away life to chase external things. Is it not lamentable? When a sage acts, he always first sees clearly where he is going and why he does so. If someone used the Marquis of Sui’s pearl (a rare treasure obtained by the Marquis of Sui) to shoot at a little bird a thousand ren high, everyone would surely laugh at him. Why? Because what is used is too precious and what is sought is too slight. And human life—is it not more precious than the Marquis of Sui’s pearl?

Guo Xiang’s commentary on this passage is brief and does not discuss it further.

Lü’s commentary (Lü Huiqing’s annotation) does not elaborate on this point.

The “Yi Du” commentary (Lin Zi’s annotation) holds that Yan He was poor yet had penetrated the true Dao and despised wealth and rank, which is why Zhuangzi takes him as an example. One who has truly attained the Dao cannot be measured by life and death; hence “hear the Dao in the morning, and it is all right to die in the evening.” Once one cherishes and guards the body and uses it to bear the weight of all under heaven, that belongs to the outward deeds of the sage. What remains like trailing silk threads or lowly as mud and chaff is too slight to be worth mentioning. The sage’s work of ordering all under heaven arises only because the world has something to rely on; he merely lets things follow their course—hence it is called “surplus affair.” “Therefore what he goes toward” and “therefore what he does” mean that whenever there is action, one must first see whether it is fitting, and only then respond. Using the Sui pearl to shoot at sparrows likens how people trade their lives for wealth and honor, abandoning what is precious and chasing what is trivial.

Bixu’s commentary (Chen Jingyuan’s annotation) holds that “trailing threads” and “mud and chaff” mean that the farther one moves from self-cultivation, the coarser things become. The sage’s self-cultivation lies in emptying the heart and softening the will; an emperor’s establishment of merit requires calloused hands and feet and exhausting toil. Compared with self-cultivation, establishing merit is only a surplus affair. Yan He saw that the direction the other party was heading was not worth taking and that the means employed might not be appropriate, so he would not accept the gift of money. Among scholars there are those who content themselves with coarse greens and lightly regard wealth and rank: the body may bend, but the Dao must not. He valued himself like the Sui pearl and treated profit and salary as lightly as sparrows.

Yan Zhai (Lin Xiyi) says: Using “trailing threads” and “mud and chaff” to govern the state and the world is originally the talk of sages and worthies. When Zhuangzi makes this distinction, people all think he splits things into two grades, fine and coarse. His real point is simply that those who know the Dao do not let outer things drag the inner mind; even possessing all under heaven they do not pull themselves into it, so that Wuwei (non-action) in governing can be realized as fully as possible. Only his wording swings too far up and down; in his heart it is not really so. “Trailing threads” and “mud and chaff” refer only to the tail end of affairs, like dust and chaff. The learning of Lord Jinggong (Wang Anshi) in recent times truly took this as two separate tracks; in practice he often cited the language of trailing threads and mud and chaff, which is why Master Zhu (Zhu Xi) argued against it at length. The metaphor of shooting sparrows with a pearl is extremely clear and apt.

Yan He—the recluse of Lu who held to the Dao and refused office—genuinely despised wealth and rank in his heart, to a degree far beyond ordinary worldly judgment. Regrettably, he did not decline in an open, straightforward way; toward the envoy he fell short of full sincerity, and that seems to have slightly marred his plain, honest virtue. The envoy had already come to his door and met him face to face, yet could not do his utmost to bring him into service; he only listened to Yan He’s words and went back to check them—is that not being too rigidly tied to “simple honesty”?

Finding office hard to enter and retreat easy to make is the usual disposition of a gentleman; the longer one cultivates oneself, the deeper one’s roots. Yan He hardly needs much comment in himself. Yet the lord of Lu was hungry for worthy men—how rarely does one meet such a person? When fortune brings one near, they still pass each other by and fail to govern together toward great undertakings and lasting peace. That outcome owed to the envoy’s mishandling of the affair; hence this special explanation as a warning.

No achievement under heaven is greater than the work of emperors and kings—and even that was treated as a side matter by him. How could ordinary people glimpse the sage’s true nature?

The phrases “suoyi” (therefore), “zhiyao suo yi” (the reason why), and “wei” match what the Analects calls “suoyou” and “suoan”—what one follows in action and where the heart rests. In current editions, “kong ting zhe miu” carries an extra character zhe; in “zhen yi zhi shen,” zhi should read chi (hold); the character sheng in “fan sheng ren zhi dongzuo” is redundant; in “Sui hou zhi zhong,” hou should be zhu—the Pearl of the Marquis of Sui, a celebrated gem of antiquity. The whole chapter appears in the Lüshi Chunqiu, which shows that Lü Buwei was not far from Zhuang Zhou in time and that the account likely preserves Zhuangzi’s authentic sense.

Liezi (Lie Yukou, a pre-Qin Daoist figure) lived in poverty, his face showing hunger. A guest said to Ziyang of Zheng (the chief minister of Zheng): “Lie Yukou is a man of the Way. He lives in your state yet is so poor—surely you are not treating worthy men with respect?” Ziyang at once ordered an official to deliver grain. When Liezi met the envoy, he bowed twice and refused the gift. After the envoy left, Liezi went indoors. His wife looked at him and beat her chest, saying: “I have heard that the wives and children of men of the Way can live in comfort and joy. Now our faces show hunger; the ruler sent us grain, and you will not take it—is this not our lot?” Liezi smiled and said: “The ruler does not know me for himself. He sends me grain because of what someone else said; when he punishes me, it will also be because of what someone else said. That is why I do not accept.” Later the people did rise in revolt and killed Ziyang.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says little about this; Lü Huiqing’s commentary does not treat it at length.

Lin Yidu comments: When a scholar is recognized for upright conduct and the other party seeks you out after investigating the facts, what they examine is real, and there is nothing shameful in being known. Ziyang was minister of Zheng but had never dealt with Liezi; suddenly, on one person’s word, he sent grain. If one rewards on hearsay, one will punish on hearsay as well—so Liezi refused.

Chen Jingyuan (style name Bixuzi) comments: A scholar who chooses obscurity—how would he bend his will to accept stipend without a proper basis? How could he indulge his wife and children’s private wishes and walk into disaster?

Lin Xiyi (style name Yanzhai) says: Ziyang sent Liezi grain because of another’s report; he did not truly understand him. If praise is taken on trust, slander will be taken on trust just the same.

When Ziyang served as prime minister in Zheng, he held the power to evaluate and appoint people—enough to sway the weight of the whole state. Worthies might hide among the common people without anyone knowing; that would not do. Hearing that Liezi had the Way, he sent someone with grain as a gift—at least a gesture of respect when one meets a worthy. Liezi thought: if grain comes to me because of what others say, how do I know punishment might not come the same way? So he declined. That is how a junzi (noble person) sees the obvious from the small and the future from the past. What his wife said, beating her breast, was merely shallow worldly opinion; who would say a wife of one who has the Way would speak like that? In the conduct of a zhiren (person of supreme attainment), even the spouse cannot fully understand—how much less others? The point is that those who wear coarse cloth while holding jade within (talent and virtue not shown outward) are hard to know in the first place; once known, they must be approached in the right way before their gifts can be used to the full.

The chapter “The Fisherman” says: if those below are not drawn close, you will not get their true hearts. That is exactly so.

When King Zhao of Chu lost his state, Tuoyang Shuo—a man named Shuo who made his living butchering sheep—followed the king in flight. When the king returned to power, he began rewarding those who had accompanied him, and his turn came to Tuoyang Shuo. Tuoyang Shuo said: When Your Majesty lost the state, I lost my trade as a butcher; when Your Majesty came home, I went back to butchering. My rank and livelihood were already restored—what is there to reward? The king said: I insist on rewarding you. Tuoyang Shuo said: Losing the state was not my fault, so I did not dare accept blame; recovering the state was not my merit, so I do not dare accept reward. The king said: Summon him to an audience. Tuoyang Shuo said: By Chu law, only those with great merit and heavy reward may see the king. My wisdom was not enough to save the state, my courage not enough to die fighting the enemy. When Wu troops entered Ying, I fled from danger—I did not follow Your Majesty out of deliberate loyalty. Now if Your Majesty sets aside law and breaks covenant to receive me, that is not something I wish to have spread under heaven. The king said to Sima Ziqi, the military chief: Tuoyang Shuo’s station is low, but his reasoning is high. Use the rank of the Three Banners to invite him. Tuoyang Shuo said: A Three-Banners post is nobler than a butcher’s stall, and a salary of ten thousand bushels is richer than a butcher’s profit—I know that. But how could I crave rank and salary and leave the ruler with a name for reckless enfeoffment? I dare not accept; I only wish to return to my butcher’s shop. And so he did not accept.

Guo Xiang’s commentary holds that the meaning is already clear and needs no further explanation.

Yi Du’s annotation: In Zhuangzi’s time, many people were not content with duty, station, and fate, and always hoped by luck to gain wealth and rank. Tuyang Shuo (a man in Chu who made his living slaughtering sheep) meant: How could I, for the sake of greedy desire for title and salary, let my lord king bear the name of handing out rewards recklessly? I dare not accept; I only wish to return to my butcher’s stall. So in the end he did not accept.

The meaning of Guo Xiang’s commentary is already clear; no further explanation is given here.

Yi Du also said: Precisely because many people at the time were not content with duty and fate and hoped by luck for wealth and rank, the story of Tuyang Shuo is cited to warn them. Though he worked in the slaughterhouse, he could hold to his station like this—it truly can stir up a slack and shallow age. “Three banners” (san jing) means a position as high as the Three Ducal Ministers. People know well that such things are wealth and honor, yet if they are not obtained by the right path, one ought not to hold them; that point can be seen clearly in Tuyang Shuo.

Bixu’s annotation: Some recite the Classic of Poetry and Documents yet go rob graves; some work in butchery or sell wine—low trades—and yet can hold to the Way. Which dynasty has lacked such people? Those who treat stolen power as their own merit and trade rank for heavy reward—hearing this story ought to make them ashamed.

Yan Zhai said: The great king returned to the state; Tuyang Shuo returned to slaughtering sheep—each returned to his proper place. The three banners and the Three Ducal Ministers, chariots, horses, and dress each have their grades of difference.

King Zhao of Chu rewarded Tuyang Shuo to show that after restoring the state he extended favor to others; Tuyang Shuo declined the reward because he was content with duty and station and would not go too far. When the ruler lost the state, he was not punished for it; so when the ruler restored the state, he did not dare accept reward—this matches in principle. Many in the world accept enfeoffment without merit, so to be content with fate and decline rank and salary is treated as rare. King Zhao ordered him summoned to honor his conduct and meet the man. Tuyang Shuo held that one must not break established law and ritual to appear at court, and finally declined. He would not let the ruler get a name for reckless rewarding—his honesty reached a level hard even for gentlemen and scholars, yet Tuyang Shuo surpassed that. If ministers and common people throughout the realm could be moved by his virtue and follow his example, why worry that the age could not flourish together?

Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) lived in the state of Lu. His dwelling had only earthen walls on four sides, a roof thatched with freshly cut grass, a gate woven from coarse reeds and left broken and incomplete, a mulberry branch for a hinge, and broken jars serving as windows, dividing the space into two rooms with coarse cloth stuffed in the openings. Rain leaked from above and the ground was damp, yet he sat upright and played the zither. Zi Gong (another disciple of Confucius), riding a large horse, wore dark greenish-red inner garments and plain white outer robes. His tall carriage could not enter the narrow lane, so he came to see him. Yuan Xian wore a birch-bark cap, slip-on shoes without heels, and leaned on a mugwort staff to open the door. Zi Gong said, “What illness has afflicted you, sir?” Yuan Xian replied, “I have heard that lacking wealth is called poverty, while learning the Way yet being unable to put it into practice is called illness. I am now poor, not ill.” Zi Gong hesitated and would not advance, shame showing on his face. Yuan Xian smiled and said, “To act in flattery of the world, to band together for friendship, to study in order to win praise, to teach for one’s own profit, to use benevolence and righteousness as a cover for evil conduct, and to parade horses and carriages for show—these I cannot bear to do.”

Zengzi (Zeng Shen, a disciple of Confucius) lived in the state of Wei. His worn padded robe had no outer garment; his face was swollen and his hands and feet were covered with calluses. He often went three days without lighting a fire to cook and ten years without adding new clothes to his wardrobe. When he straightened his cap, the hat string broke; when he pulled his robe closed, his elbow showed; when he put on shoes, the heels split. He shuffled along in his shoes singing the “Shang Eulogy” (a hymn from the Book of Odes), his voice filling heaven and earth as if bells and chime-stones were sounding. Neither the Son of Heaven could make him serve as a minister, nor could feudal lords make him their friend. Thus one who cultivates the will forgets the body; one who nurtures the body forgets profit and emolument; one who realizes the great Dao even forgets the mind’s intent.

Confucius said to Yan Hui (a disciple), “Hui, your family is poor and your station low—why do you not take office?” Yan Hui said, “I do not wish to hold office. Outside the city I have fifty mu of fields, enough for thick gruel; inside the city ten mu, enough for hemp and silk. Playing the zither suffices for my own delight; what I have learned from the Master’s Way suffices for my own joy. I do not wish to hold office.” Confucius’s expression grew solemn as he said, “Excellent—Hui’s intent! I have heard: one who knows contentment is not dragged down by gain; one who is truly self-possessed does not fear loss; one who cultivates virtue inwardly is not ashamed without an official post. I have recited these words for long; only now do I see them in Hui—this is my gain.”

The meaning of these three chapters runs consistently throughout. Guo Xiang and Lü Huiqing did not annotate them in detail. Lin Yidu (a commentator) said: Yuan Xian was one who was poor yet did not treat poverty as something to be ashamed of; Zengzi was one who was poor yet could dispel it within himself; Yanzi was one who was poor yet delighted in the great Way. “Nurturing the will and forgetting the body” refers to Yuan Xian; “nurturing the body and forgetting profit” refers to Zengzi; “attaining the Way and forgetting the mind” refers to Yanzi.

Bixuzi (Song Daoist priest Chen Jingyuan) commented: Zigong served as prime minister in Wei—carriages and horses in long trains, attendants in unbroken file—and entered a narrow lane to visit Yuan Xian (disciple of Confucius), sighing at how wretched he seemed. Yuan Xian replied: This is only poverty, not sickness. Zigong was ashamed at having spoken wrongly.

Bending to the world, chasing fame, networking and forming factions, using learning not to cultivate oneself but teaching only for a livelihood, draping wickedness in benevolence and righteousness while fussing over splendid horses and carriages—how could one who studies the Way bear to live like that? Yuan Xian was one who had learned the Way and practiced it, holding to righteousness without yielding.

Zengzi (disciple of Confucius) cultivated mind and will, so he did not take office; forgot profit, so he rarely compromised with others; forgot scheming, so he could align with the Way. Knowing sufficiency, he was not disgraced; knowing when to stop, he was not endangered. Not being disgraced came from virtue nurtured within; not being endangered came from having no rank yet no shame. This is exactly the state Confucius described—and now it is seen in Yan Hui (disciple of Confucius, also called Yanzi).

Yizhai (Song Lin Xiyi) said: Both rooms used broken jars as windows, patched with clothing against wind and rain. “Huaguan” is a hat of birch bark; “lianlü” is walking in trailing, worn shoes. Borrowing benevolence and righteousness to dress up wickedness is called “te” (hidden evil). “Wenpao” is a padded cotton garment without an outer layer—when the outside wore through, the stuffing showed. “Zhongkuai” is a swollen, puffy complexion. “Shangsong” is the Shang dynasty hymn they sang; the voice seemed to issue from metal and stone—meaning the song had rhythm. One who has attained the Way forgets thoughts and has no fixation of mind, and so is close to the Way. Studying the Way is itself enough for joy. Masters Cheng (Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi) often urged people to savor where Yan Hui’s joy lay—not to skim past it lightly. These words have been recited for long ages; formerly one only heard such talk—now at last one truly meets such a person.

Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) was content in poverty: he plucked his strings and recited the classics, and could put what he learned into practice. Though he lived in a hovel with earthen walls and a brushwood gate, he carried himself as if seated in a great hall, because benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music never left his person. Zigong (another disciple of Confucius, who had held office and was skilled at trade) gloriously occupied a high ministerial rank at the very height of success; even rulers would lower themselves to visit him, which shows he had not forgotten friendship—yet when he asked Yuan Xian “what ails you,” he showed how shallowly he understood another’s inner life. Both studied under the sage, yet their insight diverged so widely that Yuan Xian had to distinguish “poverty” from “ailment” for him: from currying favor with the world in one’s conduct down to decking oneself out with chariots and horses—that is the great sickness of the scholar. Zigong was already gravely ill in the marrow of his being without knowing it; fortunately Yuan Xian applied the sharp needle of honest rebuke—truly a teacher among friends.

Zengzi (Zeng Shen, another disciple of Confucius) had a swollen face and calloused hands; his collar was torn and his arms exposed—his poverty is easy to imagine. Yet he nourished his mind and forgot his body; his singing rang like metal and stone, and a vast, flood-like Qi filled heaven and earth. A lord of ten thousand chariots could not befriend him on equal terms—how then could such a man be made a subject?

Yanzi (Yan Hui) knew when he had enough and took joy in the Way; without rank or title he felt no shame. He followed in the Master’s footsteps and grasped the Master’s heart, without striving deliberately to “achieve” something. With a single basket of rice and a gourd of water he was happy in himself—could those who wore red sashes and carried golden seals compare with him?

These three were eminent disciples of Confucius, who received the sage’s teaching directly; only their depth of attainment differed, so the depth of their joy differed too. Someone like Zigong, who traveled among states, sought office, and multiplied wealth to startle the world, did not find the same joy as these three. Hence the Nanhua (Zhuangzi—the Nanhua Zhenjing, the Classic of Southern Florescence, i.e., the Zhuangzi) brings up this matter as a warning.

Prince Mou of Zhongshan (Wei Mou, a prince of Wei) said to Zhanzi: “My body dwells in life on rivers and seas, yet my heart stays fixed on the towers and gates of Wei (the court and its fame)—what am I to do?” Zhanzi said: “Treasure life. When you treasure life, profit and emolument grow light.” The prince said: “I know that, yet I still cannot restrain myself.” Zhanzi said: “If you cannot restrain yourself, then follow along and act accordingly—the spirit will not resent being wounded. Unable to restrain yourself yet forcing yourself not to follow—that is what is called double injury. One doubly injured cannot enjoy the lifespan that is his due.” Wei Mou was the son of a state of ten thousand chariots; to hide in cliffs and caves was harder for him than for an ordinary scholar. Though he had not yet reached the Dao, one can say he already had a mind turned toward it.

Guo Xiang and Lü Huiqing passed over this section briefly and did not discuss it in detail.

Lin Yidu’s commentary: Prince Moul of Wei was enfeoffed in Zhongshan; Zhanzi was a worthy man of Wei. The prince’s rank was exalted, and such a heart is hardest to subdue—so though one’s body may dwell beside rivers and seas, the mind still clings to Weique (the gate-towers of the Wei palace, standing for court and worldly eminence). He himself said he could not yet remain unmoved by wealth and honor, and asked how one could forget them. The reply was: when you value life, profit and rank grow lighter; once profit and rank are light, you no longer yearn for Weique. Though Moul knew that life should weigh heavy and external things should weigh light, his heart could not overcome its own selfish desires—how then could the way of spirit fail to suffer harm? Spirit arises from emptiness and stillness; Moul’s heart had not yet reached emptiness and stillness. Unable to conquer desire on his own, yet forcing himself to suppress what would not yield, he would bruise his passions and wound his nature again and again—no different from those who cannot attain long life. As heir to a state of ten thousand chariots, once he withdrew to mountain caves, to live like a common scholar was truly difficult; but with this turn of mind, one could hope he might eventually arrive.

Bixu’s commentary: Prince Moul had tasted something of the Dao’s plainness, yet still could not surpass the sweetness of “pleasurable bait” (the music and delights that drown the mind). Following what one loves can nourish life; blocking the spirit harms oneself. Having lost the ease that nurtures the form, and added the distress of suppressing the spirit—is this not a double injury? Wei Moul admired the name of noble reclusion (jiadun), but had little of true withdrawal in fact. Intent is easy to raise; integrity is hard to keep. Still, compared with those who turn upside down in wealth and honor, he was after all not the same.

Yi Zhai says: Once you know that your own life is what matters most, things outside the body naturally weigh less. When you already see the point in principle but cannot yet live up to it, for the time being go along with your natural disposition and do not force yourself to clamp down. Forced suppression injures spirit and mind from within; spirit and mind turn against you as well. That is not the proper way to nurture yourself, nor does it bring you into the company of those who live long—it only means you hold the right intention and do your best to practice.

Xiangwei and guanque both denote the towered gatehouses before the ruler’s palace. The Huainanzi writes the same place as guique, with identical sound and sense. Xu Shen glosses it as the paired gate-towers flanking the Son of Heaven’s palace entrance.

“Cannot overcome oneself, then follow”—follow the natural disposition; do not forcibly check it. Some read cong shen as a unit: go where spirit and mind feel at ease. “Cannot overcome oneself, then follow it—will spirit have any aversion?” The usual path of learning the Dao is to lessen desire and turn the heart toward emptiness; here, however, the text speaks of following disposition so that spirit is calm and the mind is easy—meaning not to despise oneself for still lacking self-mastery. It also says that to force restraint instead of following is called zhongshang, “severe inner harm”; taken at face value, that would almost sound like endorsing indulgence and making pleasure the Way.

The passage cited is what Liezi attributes to Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) on nurturing life: let it flow—do not block it.

The deeper point is that Prince Mou, born to rank and riches, yet wished to hide in cliffs and caves—an extraordinary turn. If his feelings were checked too harshly, his inborn nature might be damaged; hence gentle language to draw him on. Keep moving forward and you reach the goal in the end—the same destination as strict self-restraint. Zhuangzi (the Nan-hua Zhenjing) uses the story to encourage people who enjoy wealth and status yet study the Way, so they do not turn back at the sight of a steep drop. Guan Zhong’s business was hegemony and strong armies; his doctrine was inevitably one-sided and cannot be put on a par with Prince Mou. What the mentor Zhanzi says was never meant as a universal rule for learning the Dao—like a skilled physician who prescribes according to the patient; the aim is simply to cure the illness.

From Nan-hua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei, juan 93 (Siku Quanshu edition), juan 94, by Chu Boxiu of the Song, Miscellaneous Section, “Letting the King Have His Way” (Rang Wang), second part.

Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai. For seven days he could not cook over fire; his wild-vegetable soup had not a grain of rice in it. His face showed extreme exhaustion, yet he still played the zither and sang inside his lodging. Yan Hui went out to gather wild greens. Zilu and Zigong talked among themselves: “The Master was twice driven out of Lu, could not stay in Wei, had the tree under which he taught cut down in Song, was hard pressed in the regions of Shang and Zhou, and is now besieged in Chen and Cai. Those who would kill him need not answer for it; those who insult him are not forbidden—yet he keeps playing and singing without pause. Can a gentleman be this shameless?”

Yan Hui had no reply. He went in and reported this to Confucius. Confucius set aside his zither and sighed: “Zhong You and Duanmu Ci are men of narrow vision. Call them in; I have something to say to them.”

When Zilu and Zigong entered, Zilu said, “To come to this pass is truly straitened.” Confucius said, “What kind of talk is that! When a gentleman is one with the Way, that is called being unobstructed; when one cannot advance on the Way, that is called being straitened. Now I embrace the Way of benevolence and righteousness yet meet the hardships of a chaotic age—how is that straitened? Therefore, when I examine myself, I am not straitened in the Way; facing danger, I do not lose virtue. When cold has come and frost and snow have fallen, then I know how the pine and cypress flourish. Is not the hardship of Chen and Cai, for Kong Qiu, a kind of good fortune?”

Confucius then took up his zither and sang again. Zilu rallied his spirit, took up a shield, and danced. Zigong said, “I did not know before how high Heaven is and how thick Earth is.”

In antiquity, those who attained the Way were joyful in straitened circumstances and joyful in unobstructed ones; what they rejoiced in was not straitenedness or ease itself. When virtue is established in this, straitenedness and ease are like cold, heat, wind, and rain succeeding one another in season. Thus Xu You found tranquil joy north of the Ying River, and Lord Gong could rest content on Mount Gongshou.

Guo Xiang’s commentary passes over this passage without discussion.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary (Lü Zhu) states: From Yan He (the recluse who refused gifts) and Liezi (Yukou) down to Confucius, none would rashly accept another’s rank, salary, or presents; even in poverty, cold, and hunger they did not change their joy in the Way. Next, although Prince Mou had not yet reached the Way, he already had a mind turned toward it. People sunk in artificial, hypocritical ways, when they hear of the bearing of Xu You and Shan Juan (who declined the realm), treat it as madness and do not believe it. Therefore the account proceeds step by step: the sages all delight in the Dao and forget about life; if forgetting life was hard and they could still do it, then not harming one’s own life for the sake of all under heaven and the state is easier still—from this one can understand.

Lin Yidu (a Song-dynasty commentator on the Zhuangzi) wrote: Confucius’s great Dao filled heaven and earth; neither hardship nor success could drag him down. Trapped between Chen and Cai, with no one above or below him to associate with, he went seven days without warm food, yet he was not troubled and still played the zither and sang without cease. At that time only Yan Hui truly understood Confucius. Zilu and Zigong could not help mocking him for not knowing shame. Confucius then summoned the two and told them: poverty and success belong to the Dao, not to external things. He bore the way of benevolence and righteousness—how could that count as poverty? This was precisely keeping his De intact while facing danger. When moral power rests in oneself, it cannot show unless danger arises—like pine and cypress revealing their firmness only after cold weather. So Confucius treated this hardship as something to rejoice in. He took up the zither again and sang as he played. The two disciples’ hearts cleared; they understood, took up shields and danced, so joyful they forgot how high heaven is and how low earth is. This illustrates that Confucius’s way was too vast to put into words. From this we know that in antiquity those who attained the Dao were happy whether in want or in ease—but what they rejoiced in was not want or ease itself.

Bixu (Chen Jingyuan, styled Bixuzi) wrote: One could call this poverty—but only from outward signs; to assign poverty and success to the turns of fate is still not to grasp the root of the Dao. Pine and cypress grow more lush when frost and snow come; the sage does not change his conduct when disaster strikes. Using the careers of Duke Huan of Qi, Duke Wen of Jin, and the King of Yue as confirmation, the Chen–Cai hardship was exactly what let his brilliance show; the great Dao was clarified through concrete action. “Heaven high, earth low” compares to the breadth of Confucius’s way. Moral power is like metal and stone: once the pitch is set it cannot be altered; poverty and success are like zither and se—when one piece ends the tuning must change. Thus human poverty and success are like wind, rain, cold, and heat—the ordinary pattern of heavenly principle. Xu You declined Yao’s abdication and lived a withered life at Yingyang; Gongbo refused rank and fulfilled his intent at Qiushou. Confucius did not fear the Chen–Cai hardship and stood firm between poverty and success.

Yan Zhai explained that “bu san” means there were no grains in the broth. Here the image draws on the cold season’s harshness and the pine and cypress being the last to wither: precisely because the sage endured the hardship between Chen and Cai, his steadfast integrity in poverty came into view and could be emulated by later generations—hence it is called “fortunate.” “Xiaoran” broadly suggests a free, at-ease bearing; “giran” suggests a joyful, leaping delight. Zigong’s few remarks express that he had gained some understanding. “Shang and Zhou” refers to the region of the Zhou capital, where there were old Shang territories and former Shang people.

Zilu and Zigong spoke of the Master’s outward conduct; Yan Hui grasped the Master’s heart, so he had no need to say more. Poverty and success both lie within the Way; worldly gain and loss cannot add to or subtract from it. As long as one is not impoverished in the Way, one will not fail in De; how could hardship and peril change him? Only in bitter cold do pine and cypress show their endurance; only in crisis does the sage appear—hence the word “fortune.” The Master took up his zither again and sang, resting in Heaven’s mandate, his joy undiminished. Zilu took up his shield and danced vigorously because he had awakened to the principle and rejoiced in his heart, dancing without realizing it. Zigong’s lines praise the Master’s Way as vast and hard to exhaust; the phrase “virtue and the Way here” should be read against the passage above. Xu You, who declined the realm, and Lord Gong, said in tradition to have withdrawn to Qiu Shou, each enjoyed their own contentment for the same reason—they had attained this Way. Qiu Shou is a mountain name. Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan) collated an old Jiangnan manuscript and found, below “the luxuriance of pine and cypress,” three further lines: “Duke Huan obtained it at Ju, Duke Wen at Cao, the King of Yue at Kuaiji”—which is why his commentary reads as it does; below “Lord Gong obtained” there is also the character zhi (“will/intent”). The character Shang in “impoverished in Shang and Zhou” is hard to make sense of; most commentators leave it aside, and only Yan Zhai discusses it.

Shun offered the realm to his friend Beiren Wuzhe, a recluse from the north. Beiren Wuzhe said: “This ruler’s conduct is truly strange! He lived among the fields, yet went to seek Yao’s patronage; and still not satisfied, he would now stain me with his shameful ways. I am ashamed to face him.” He then drowned himself in the clear, cold abyss.

When Tang was about to attack Jie, the last ruler of Xia, he consulted the recluse Biansui. Biansui said: “That is not my affair.” Tang asked who might help; he said he did not know. Tang then consulted Moguang (also known as Wuguang). Moguang likewise said it was not his affair, and when asked who might help, again said he did not know. Tang asked what Yi Yin was like. The answer was: “He is resolute and strong, and can bear disgrace—but beyond that I do not know.” Tang plotted with Yi Yin to overthrow Jie. After victory, he wished to yield the realm to Biansui. Biansui refused, saying: “When you attacked Jie you came to me for counsel; others will surely think me cruel and bloodthirsty. Having defeated Jie you would give me the realm; others will surely think me greedy for power. I was born in a chaotic age, and men without the Way repeatedly try to stain me with shameful conduct—I cannot bear to hear such talk.” He drowned himself in the Chou River.

Tang then tried to yield the realm to Moguang, saying: “The wise plan, the brave carry it out, and the humane hold the throne—such has been the way since antiquity. Why will you not take the position?” Moguang declined: “To cast down the ruler above is not righteous; to harm the people is not humane; others risked danger while I would enjoy the gain—that is not integrity. I have heard that emolument gained without righteousness must not be accepted, and in a realm without the Way one should not even set foot on its soil—how much less accept being honored as its lord! I cannot bear to look long upon such a state of things.” He shouldered a stone and sank himself in the Lu River.

Guo Xiang’s commentary states: A person of resolve is willing to give up life to fulfill humaneness (ren) and unwilling to harm humaneness in order to preserve life. Their aspiration is lofty and far-reaching, their conduct and integrity remote from worldly vulgarity—fundamentally worlds apart from those who crave profit even at the cost of their lives. The older view holds that Bian Sui and Wuguang (i.e., Wuguang, the recluse in legend who refused kingship) regarded the realm as remote as the “six directions” (above, below, and the four quarters—the world beyond ordinary society), something ordinary people cannot fathom. That view is mistaken. One who truly holds the realm lightly cannot have something else he holds more dear in his heart; if nothing weighs on him at all, he will not be driven into a situation where death is the only way out. If the realm is already seen as outside the six directions, it ought to be entrusted to figures such as Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang. With a calm mind and no inner attachment, following along with the multitude and neither grasping gain nor brooding over loss—why would one need to throw oneself into the water? These two men sacrificed themselves only for reputation and purity of conduct; one cannot yet say they had truly set the realm aside. Lü Huiqing’s commentary appears in a later chapter.

Lin Yidu’s commentary states: Shun and Tang follow one and the same Way. Shun received the realm by yielding to the flow of things; Tang took it by punitive expedition. “Following” (shun) is the Way descending into human affairs; “going against” (ni) is returning to the great Way and entering virtue. That Shun offered the realm to Beiren Wuse (a legendary recluse) shows how deeply he intended to return to the mandate of Heaven (fu ming—restoring innate nature and life). It also says that after Tang overthrew Jie of Xia he offered the realm to Bian Sui and Wuguang, to show Tang had no private stake in the realm: he raised armies for the people, not for himself. Yi Yin, the worthy minister who assisted Tang in overthrowing Jie, is recorded in the Documents (Shangshu); Tang’s offer of the realm never appears in the classics. Zhuangzi invented these names to convey the meaning of declining the throne.

Chen Bixu’s commentary states: A scholar who keeps himself pure treats glory as shame. Someone like Beiren Wuse could rank with Zhong Wu above and befriend Ziling (Yan Guang, the Eastern Han recluse) below, and would not let external things wound his resolve. Bian Sui and Wuguang needed only to refuse to serve in chaotic times and keep their distance; why must they immediately drown themselves? That was largely to stir and encourage later generations.

Lin Xiyue (style name Yanzhai) says: Shun’s offer of the throne to a friend is not recorded in other classics either—it is likewise parable (yuyan). What is said about striving in action, doing what must be done, bearing disgrace, and enduring humiliation, as well as the ancient lofty men Bian Sui and Wuguang drowning themselves, is equally beyond verification in historical fact.

Shun and Wuzhe (the northern hermit Wuzhe) had been friends. Shun believed him capable of the role and therefore offered him the realm. As far as Wuzhe was concerned, refusing would have been enough—or he could simply have gone far away. Why did he have to end his life by throwing himself into the Qingling pool? The point is that Wuzhe saw it as shameful that Shun worked the fields yet still moved in Yao’s circle—a sign of how lofty his aspirations were. Shun failed to understand his heart, so what he expected of him looked all the more base.

When Tang was about to attack Jie, he was bent on vigorous action. Biansui and Moguang (also known as Wuguang)—both advocates of Wuwei (non-action)—were men of non-action, yet Tang went to them for strategy. That is like setting out for Yue in the south while turning the cart shaft toward the north. Only after he obtained Yi Yin did he complete the campaign against Jie. When he returned, he offered the realm to Biansui. Biansui not only refused but was ashamed of being stained by the offer and threw himself into the Chou (Shu) River. Tang then offered it to Moguang. Moguang rebuked him for lacking benevolence and righteousness and for acting against the proper Way; in the end he would not accept his stipend, would not set foot on his land, and sank himself with stones on his back. All three were lofty in integrity and strict in conduct—firm, upright, and unwilling to turn back. From antiquity people have never escaped death; what is there to cling to? That is why Nanhua (Zhuangzi) brings up these cases—to stir a decadent age.

On closer reading, the chapter’s drift is this: Shun’s abdication, though not recorded elsewhere, is portrayed as gaining the throne through yielding and passing it on the same way— flawless, with nothing for others to fault. Tang’s yielding, by contrast, was probably not sincere at heart, so he could not escape the world’s talk. The stories of Biansui and Moguang drowning themselves in the Chou and Lu rivers only mean they fled to the utmost extreme; it is enough to preserve the account without piling on further judgment.

When the Zhou dynasty was rising, two scholars in the state of Guzhu were named Bo Yi and Shu Qi. They said to each other: “We hear that in the west there is someone who seems to have attained the Way; let us go and see.” When they reached Qiyang (south of Mount Qi), King Wu learned of their arrival and sent his younger brother Shudan (the Duke of Zhou) to meet them. He made a pact with them: their stipends would be raised by two ranks, their offices set at the first grade; an animal was slaughtered for blood, which was buried in the earth as a sworn covenant. The two looked at each other and smiled: “How strange—this is not what we call the Way.”

In antiquity, when Shennong held the realm, he offered sacrifices at the proper seasons and gave himself over to reverence, yet did not pray for blessings. In governing the people he relied on loyalty and good faith and exerted himself fully, while asking nothing for himself. When people were glad to take part in government, he shared rule with them; when they were glad to be governed, he shared in being governed with them. He did not use others’ ruin to build himself up, did not use others’ lowliness to raise himself, and did not seize the moment for his own profit. Now the Zhou, seeing disorder in Yin (Shang), rush to take power: above they use scheming, below they buy loyalty with wealth, they lean on armed force to keep their prestige, they treat slaughtering beasts and swearing oaths as sincerity, they parade their conduct to please the masses, and they seek gain through killing and conquest. That is to push chaos forward in place of tyranny.

Men of old in such roles did not shirk duty when the age was well ordered, and in a chaotic age they did not cling to life at any cost. Now the realm is dark, and the virtue of Zhou is already in decline. Rather than join Zhou and stain ourselves, it is better to withdraw and keep our conduct pure. The two went north to Mount Shouyang and in the end starved to death.

Bo Yi and Shu Qi, regarding wealth and rank—even when they could have had them—did not think they had to rely on such things. They held to lofty integrity and conduct unlike others’, finding joy only in their own resolve, not seeking achievement from the world. Such was the integrity of these two scholars.

Guo Xiang’s commentary says: To say Bo Yi and Shu Qi starved on Mount Shouyang originally meant only that they went hungry, not that they died; here “died” indicates that they held to the Way to the very end.

Commentary by Lü Huiqing: Figures such as the northerner Wuzhe, Biansui, Wuguang, Boyi, and Shuqi did more than refuse the realm and titles with stipends that others offered them—they treated even hearing such proposals and living in such an age as shameful, and some drowned themselves or starved to death. That is harder than delighting in the pursuit of the Way while forgetting one’s life; ordinary sentiment can hardly credit it. All of these were sages who had long understood the principle of life and death. In dying, some weigh heavier than Mount Tai, others lighter than a goose feather. The late drift of Shun and Yu’s abdications produced disasters like those of Zhi and King Kuai of Yan; the late drift of conquering the realm by force produced the father-and-son struggle between Kuai Kui and Zhe over the throne. When people hear of the example of Wuzhe, Suiguang, and Yi and Qi, is the benefit to the world and later ages a small one? Clearly they did not begrudge death. Yet Han Feizi said that Tang feared the world would think him greedy, so he offered the realm to Wuguang; fearing Wuguang might accept, he sent someone to say Tang wished to shift a bad reputation onto him, whereupon Wuguang threw himself into a river. Sima Qian also did not believe men like Biansui and Wuguang really existed. Han Feizi brought ruin on himself through his cleverness, so it is understandable that he judged Tang and Wuguang in this way. Xu You, Zizhou Zhifu, and Zizhou Zhibo refused to exchange their lives for the realm—teaching later ages to value life and treat emolument lightly. Wuzhe, Suiguang, Yi, Qi, and their kind gave up their lives to stir the world—teaching later ages to forget private concerns of life and death and to value righteousness. In ren they were actually of one mind. When Zhuangzi discusses the utmost Dao and teaches people to abandon fame and gain, he places Yi, Qi, and Suiguang among those he criticizes; when he discusses yielding the throne and awakens those in the world who harm themselves and die for external things, he again holds them up for esteem. Readers who grasp this will not cling to the wording but will understand the intent.

Commentary by Lin Yidu: Confucius and Mencius called Boyi and Shuqi sages, so later ages trust and follow them. What Zhuangzi records is the historians’ account; his aim is to correct the worldly fault of sacrificing oneself for external things, so his language inevitably goes somewhat too far. This chapter meant to raise a lofty spirit of withdrawal, to make the greedy honest and the timid resolute, yet one cannot say it is without harmful drift. The harmful drift of Yi and Qi is that brutal rulers may ravage at will while no one dares resist. When one’s time is unpropitious, one corrects custom by one’s conduct—and the age also shapes that choice. If one can follow the times, accord with principle, and go along with things as they run on their own, one leaves no trace and has no harmful drift.

Bi Xu (Chen Jingyuan, Song Daoist, styled Bixuzi) notes: In an age of plain simplicity, people sacrificed to the spirits without bargaining for blessings, and served their lords without scheming for stipends. When it was time to govern, they governed; when it was time to set things in order, they set things in order—all by following what the people themselves wanted. Rivers and seas become the gathering place of a hundred streams because they are good at staying low. People today instead assert themselves, exalt themselves, and grab for themselves; that is what sages disapprove of. Boyi and Shuqi came from Guzhu (a small state at the end of the Shang), turned toward a ruler who held the Way, and carried on King Wen of Zhou’s work—they were not the sort to cling greedily to rank and salary. They gathered ferns to eat on West Mountain and nourished their hearts in quiet woods; their inborn character was utterly pure.

Yu Zhai (Lin Xiyi, author of Zhuangzi Yu Zhai Kouyi) says: “Praying for joy” means praying for good fortune; “without seeking” is like not chasing reputation. “Joining in government as government” means taking action without private motives mixed in. “Hurried” (ju) is like rushed and flustered. “Parading goods” means using salary and profit to draw the world’s scholars. “Blocking with arms” is leaning on military force to take risks; “guarding prestige” is erecting martial glory; “displaying conduct” is showing off one’s own name. “Standing together with Zhou” means that if you share the same age with the Zhou, you stain yourself. “Not relying” means not treating wealth and honor as something to lean on. The two brothers did not deliberately hoist high integrity and sharpen their conduct just to look lofty. If wealth and honor could be taken within righteousness, they would have taken them; it was only because righteousness forbade it that they acted as they did. “The world was dark” points to the chaotic reign of King Zhou of Shang. “Zhou’s virtue had waned” means that even as Zhou was just rising, its conduct was already like this. They loathed the Zhou for using clever plots to seize the realm.

Boyi and Shuqi gave up their royal positions and went to Qiyang (south of Mount Qi, where the Zhou were rising) to watch—not from contempt, but because they admired Zhou moral transformation and wished to be ordinary people under a sage’s rule, sharing the ease of wuwei (non-coercive governance). Toward King Wu of Zhou, however, they felt revulsion at his taking the realm through stratagem and force.

Boyi and Shuqi renounced their royal status and went to Qiyang (south of Mount Qi, the region where the Zhou rose), simply because they admired the Zhou’s moral governance and wished to become subjects under a sage ruler, sharing together in the teaching of wuwei (non-action, acting in accord with nature without arbitrary imposition). When King Wu sent Shudan (Duke of Zhou, Ji Dan, the king’s younger brother) to form an alliance with them and tried to lure them with rank and stipends, how could that have matched their intent? That is why they invoked the age of Shennong (the legendary sage-king of antiquity) to show that present conduct was wrong.

In that age, sacrifice did not seek blessings: she, la, jiao, and di (offerings to the earth, year-end communal rites, suburban sacrifice to Heaven, and great ancestral rites) were only exhaustive reverence to repay the spirits, with no greedy requests. From this one knows that governing the state should be wuwei. To take part in affairs is to do what affairs require, without private motives mixed in; to engage in governance is to do what governance itself requires, without disturbance. Not harming others to complete oneself, not lowering others to raise oneself, not seizing advantage from the times for personal gain—then one sees others as oneself, and things each find their balance.

Now Zhou, seeing the disorder of Yin-Shang, hurried to reform government, rejoiced in the other’s peril and plotted accordingly, scattering goods and relying on might, pleasing the masses and grasping profit—this differed little from pushing turmoil forward to replace tyranny. When the age is dark and virtue declines, to dwell in the same era may stain one’s person; better to withdraw, go north to Mount Shouyang, and willingly starve there.

Starvation falling on the body is a calamity of the flesh; loss of integrity in conduct and character is a calamity of the heart. If the heart’s calamity develops, it can reach violation of law and breach of the Way, with poison spreading without end; the body’s calamity stops with one person, yet suffices to block a failing wind in society and revive teaching. Therefore the people still praise them to this day, and Confucius affirmed them with “benevolence.” The two sought benevolence and obtained it, without resentment.

As the text says, the world is dark and Zhou’s virtue declines. Chen Bixu (Daoist scholar Chen Jingyuan), comparing an old Jiangnan manuscript, reads here “Yin’s virtue declined”—Yin’s virtue declined, and therefore Zhou destroyed it.

Guo Xiang says: The intent of this chapter is to revive the ethos of lofty withdrawal and reclusive self-preservation. Those touched by it may have been greedy and pushy by nature, yet once they set foot on the broad road that leads to the court of Heaven and enter the purple inner precinct where the sovereign dwells, they sometimes sigh halfway along—and how much more so ordinary people? Thus figures such as Boyi and Xu You can stand beside Hou Ji and Qi, and can be weighed against Yi Yin and Lü Shang (Jiang Taigong). Those who dwell in mountain valleys yet turn the world toward them may not all become aides to sages, but are they not still above those who scramble in the dust of ambition? Such a path is hard to follow, yet the harm it leaves behind is slight—hence its worth.

Someone asked: What is the flaw in Boyi and Xu You? The answer: Xu You’s flaw is that it leads people to feign humility in order to seek office, until it reaches the extreme of King Yan of Yan yielding the throne to Zhi; Boyi’s flaw is that cruel rulers can rampage unchecked, with no one daring to resist. Another asked: What is the flaw in Yi Yin and Lü Shang? The answer: Their flaw is that strong men across the world who crave power dare to usurp and rebel. Only the sage leaves no trace, and therefore has no flaw. If Yi Yin and Lü Shang are taken as traces left by the sage, then Boyi and Shuqi are traces of the sage as well; if Boyi and Shuqi are not taken as the sage’s traces, then what Yi Yin and Lü Shang did cannot count as sagehood either. The sage simply accords with how things run on their own, and so leaves no trace. Thus what is called “sage” is because I originally had no trace, and things then show traces; once traces appear, people forcibly call it sagehood. Visible “sagehood” is only a name applied to “no trace.”

Lu Deming says: Some hold that the point of “Yielding the Kingdom” is largely to prize life, yet Bian Sui, Muguang (Wuguang), and several others drowned themselves—why? The answer: Zhuangzi’s aim in speaking is return to the root, and return to the root must first shed glory and fame. Hence he honors those who yield the throne and marks a lofty will that looks down on the world, meaning not to lower the body and bend the will, so as to temper custom—and not to cling to life at the price of debasing oneself. Though the text sometimes speaks of prizing life, it still ends in casting off glory and fame, thereby deeply removing the ills of worldly affairs. Next below that are scholars in coarse cloth who drink thin gruel: they preserve the great Way, aim high, transcend the world and seek ease for themselves—they would rather throw themselves into cold water than ever submit to worldly entanglements.

Liu Kai said: Those who will not stop until they absolutely must hold back from nothing; those who could stop but still do not stop grasp at everything. Holding back from nothing comes close to being fastidious and withdrawn (juan—having things one will not do and keeping oneself pure); grasping at everything comes close to being radical and aggressive (kuang—pressing forward without restraint). If the sage finds someone who embodies the Mean (zhongdao) and keeps company with such a person, both kuang and juan can be set aside and not relied upon; if he cannot find such a person, both types fall within what must be judged, chosen, and either taken up or rejected.

Kuang and juan were originally faults of straying from the Mean. Later ages’ “kuang” were not merely forward‑pushing; they also craved life and profit and sank into sensual desire. “Juan” was not merely having things one would not do; some even washed their ears or threw themselves into deep water—refusing to hear of Yao’s offer of the throne and washing their ears, or rejecting the realm and drowning—thus hating the very names of Yao and Shun. That is a further step downward in the ailments of kuang and juan.

Zhuangzi held that the name “yielding” (rang) stands between bestowing and accepting, and ought not to miss what is fitting. Kingship is the most exalted position in the world; if one can yield it while still king, what thing could one not release? Hence the sage rules all under Heaven only when he has no choice—as in the case of Prince Sou of Yue (the prince of Yue who fled the throne yet was still pressed to accept it).

Outwardly the sage does not cling to things—who would then exhaust himself treating the realm as a personal enterprise? Inwardly he has no private grip on “self,” yet the world turns to him—how could he decline? Viewed this way, Yao and Shun’s abdications, Tang and Wu’s campaigns, Yi Yin’s assisting Tang, Boyi’s withdrawal from Zhou’s rule, and alike those who came to Yao’s door and those who lived in the fields—all follow the same principle of where one’s orientation lies.

This chapter of Chu's Comprehensive Discourse states: The lofty integrity recorded in "Relinquishing Kingship" (Rang Wang)—from Yao and Shun through Xu You and Shan Juan down to Wangzi Sou—all alike set the Great Dao above all and held life precious, refusing to let wealth and rank weigh on the heart, and treating the realm as something that could be cast aside like worn-out shoes. Figures such as Zihuazi, Yan He, Zengzi, Yan Hui, and Gongzi Mou preserved their original nature and kept to simplicity, unwilling to trade their integrity for profit and position, and regarding wealth and honor as drifting clouds. Among them Wei Mou may fall somewhat short of the sages, yet as a son of a ruler he was able to renounce the dignity of the throne and withdraw to live in mountain caves—no small achievement. The lingering influence of such lofty conduct in turn awakened those who held territory and office to set the Great Dao first and cherish life; the teaching of clarity, non-striving (Wuwei), and letting things be was thereby established, and the work of the hidden sage and “plain king”—the saint who teaches through virtue rather than through power—was thereby brought into clear view.

In the world, those who forget themselves and chase external things will quarrel over the slightest gain or loss at the first touch of benefit or harm. To hold royal rank and yet be able to yield—that is among the greatest deeds under heaven. Those who embrace the Way and are entrusted with others’ hopes sometimes also refuse to accept a state and depart into mountains and seas. Yet why did men like the northerner Wurenze, Bian Sui, and Wuguang throw themselves into water and destroy bodies of immeasurable worth? Because when a scholar fails to hold the middle Way and only pursues purity in isolation, harm cannot be avoided. Those who grasp to the extreme never know when to stop and in the end come to usurpation and rebellion; those who yield to the extreme find nowhere left to retreat and only stop when they have drowned themselves. That shows not merely refusal to accept—it pushes refusal to an extreme, making a display to later ages; that too is the fault of courting a name. Only the sage is centered and unbiased: yielding and accepting are both fitting, hiding and appearing both follow the times, moving at ease in the middle Way—such were Yao and Shun.

Boyi and Shuqi yielded the throne and fled to Mount Shouyang, eating bracken until they died. They did not deliberately take an extreme stance to seek fame from posterity; rather, the age was dark and the Way in decline, so they could not remain in the world together. Their aim was to rise above the dust, stand apart in lofty withdrawal, and preserve the Great Dao alone—even death was nothing to regret. When one has already become ruler and then yields, the deed stands out; when one withdraws before ever ruling, the deed stays hidden. The will to yield is the same in both; only the circumstances differ.

Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Classic of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Cuanwei), juan 94. Imperial Complete Library of the Four Treasures. Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, juan 95.

From Nanhua Zhenjing Yihai Zuanwei (Collected Subtleties of the Ocean of Meaning in the True Classic of Nanhua), Miscellaneous Chapters, “Dao Zhi” section 1, by Chu Boxiu of the Song dynasty.

Confucius and Liu Xiaji (Liu Xia Hui) were friends. Liu Xiaji’s younger brother was named Dao Zhi. He commanded nine thousand men, rampaged across the realm, harried the feudal lords, broke through walls and doors, drove off others’ cattle and horses, and abducted women. Insatiable in his greed, he forgot kinship, neglected parents and brothers, and did not sacrifice to his ancestors. Wherever he passed, great states shut their gates to defend themselves and small states fled into fortresses; the common people suffered deeply.

Confucius said to Liu Xiaji: “A father ought to be able to instruct his son, and an elder brother ought to be able to teach his younger brother. If a father cannot teach his son and an elder brother cannot teach his younger brother, then the affection between father and son and between brothers is worth little. You, sir, are a talent of the age, yet your brother Dao Zhi has become a scourge under heaven, and you cannot discipline him. I am privately ashamed for you, sir. Allow me to go and admonish him on your behalf.”

Liu Xiaji said: “You say a father must be able to teach his son and an elder brother must teach his younger brother—but if the son will not heed the father’s teaching and the younger brother will not accept the elder’s instruction, what can even your eloquence accomplish? Moreover, this man Dao Zhi has a mind like a gushing spring and intentions like a rushing wind. His strength is enough to resist enemies, and his tongue enough to cover his faults. When you go along with his wishes he is pleased; when you go against them he grows angry—and he readily insults people with words. Sir, you must not go.”

Confucius would not listen. He had Yan Hui drive the carriage and Zigong sit to the right, and they went to see Dao Zhi. Dao Zhi was letting his followers rest on the southern slope of Mount Tai, cutting out human livers to serve with their meal. Confucius alighted, went forward, and said to the attendant: “Kong Qiu of Lu, having heard of the general’s righteous conduct, respectfully bows again and again and asks for an audience.” The attendant went in to report. When Dao Zhi heard this he flew into a rage—his eyes shone like stars, his hair bristled and lifted his cap—and said: “Is this not that crafty, hypocritical Kong Qiu of Lu? Tell him for me: You weave words and falsely invoke King Wen and King Wu. You wear a cap like a tree branch and gird yourself with a belt of dead ox ribs. Your speech is abundant and absurd: you do not plow yet you eat, you do not weave yet you wear clothes. You wag your lips and beat your drum, arbitrarily making right and wrong, bewildering the lords under heaven and causing the scholars of the realm not to return to their proper stations. You feign filial piety and brotherly respect and by luck seek enfeoffment and wealth. Your crime is extreme—get back at once, or I will add your liver to my midday meal.”

Confucius sent someone to report again: “I have had the good fortune to know Liu Xiaji and hope to bow before you beneath the tent.” The attendant went in once more. Dao Zhi said: “Bring him in.” Confucius hurried forward. Dao Zhi pressed his sword, glared, and spoke like a nursing tigress: “Kong Qiu, come here! If what you say accords with my mind you live; if it goes against my mind you die.”

Confucius said: “I have heard that under heaven there are three kinds of virtue. To be tall and handsome from birth, unmatched in appearance, so that young and old, noble and base all delight to see you—this is the highest virtue. To have wisdom that embraces heaven and earth and can distinguish all things—this is middle virtue. To be bold and resolute, able to gather crowds and lead troops—this is the lowest virtue. An ordinary person who has even one of these can face south and call himself king. Today the general has all three: height eight feet two inches, a radiant face, lips like bright cinnabar, teeth like orderly shells, a voice in tune with the yellow bell—the standard pitch of ancient music—yet your name is called Dao Zhi. I am privately ashamed for the general; it ought not to be so. If the general will heed me, I ask to go south as envoy to Wu and Yue, north to Qi and Lu, east to Song and Wei, west to Jin and Chu, to build for the general a great city of several hundred li in circumference, to establish fiefs of tens of thousands of households, to honor the general as a feudal lord, and with all under heaven to remove the old and establish the new, halt war and rest the troops, nurture brothers, and jointly sacrifice to the ancestors. This is the conduct of sages and talented men, and the wish of all under heaven.”

Dao Zhi said: “Those who can be guarded against with profit and admonished with words are foolish, shallow common people. Today my body is tall and my face handsome; people delight to see me—this is what my parents left me. Even if you did not praise me, would I not know it myself? Moreover I have heard that those who love to praise you to your face also love to slander you behind your back. Now you tell me of a great city and many people—you are calculating me with profit, keeping me like a common beast. How could that last?

“However large a city, it cannot be larger than all under heaven. Yao and Shun possessed the realm, yet their descendants had not room to stick awl point; Tang and Wu became Sons of Heaven, yet their lines ended in extinction—is this not precisely because the profit was too great?

“Moreover I have heard: In antiquity beasts were many and people few. People nested in trees to escape harm, gathered acorns and chestnuts by day and slept in the trees by night—they were called the people of Nest-builder. In antiquity people did not know clothes; in summer they piled firewood, and in winter they burned it for warmth—they were called people who knew how to live. In the age of Shen Nong, lying down was secure and rising was at ease; people knew their mothers but not their fathers, lived with elk and deer, plowed to eat and wove to wear, with no mind to harm one another—this was the height of virtue. Yet the Yellow Emperor could not reach this virtue and fought Chiyou on the plain of Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao and Shun arose and set up ministers; Tang exiled his lord, and King Wu attacked Zhou. From then on the strong bullied the weak and the many oppressed the few. Since Tang and Wu, all have been people who disturbed the human heart.

“Now you cultivate the ways of King Wen and King Wu, wield the disputations of the realm to instruct later generations, wear stitched clothes and a loose girdle, and with clever speech and false conduct bewilder the lords under heaven to seek wealth and honor. There is no greater robber than you. Why does the world not call you Robber Qiu, but call me Dao Zhi?

“You sweet-talked Zilu and made him follow you, take off his high cap and unfasten his long sword, and accept your teaching. The world said Kong Qiu could stop violence and forbid wrong. Yet Zilu tried to kill the lord of Wei and failed; he was minced into paste at the east gate of Wei. That is your teaching falling short. You take yourself for a talented man and sage? Yet twice you were driven from Lu, in Wei your footprints were scraped away, in Qi you fell into straits, between Chen and Cai you were besieged—you had nowhere under heaven to stand. Zilu, whom you taught, met such disaster: above he could not settle himself, below he could not complete others. Where is your Way worth prizing?

“What the world honors, none surpasses the Yellow Emperor—yet even he could not preserve his virtue and fought on the plain of Zhuolu until blood flowed for a hundred li. Yao was unfatherly, Shun unfilial, Yu half-paralyzed; Tang exiled his lord, Wu attacked Zhou, and Wen was imprisoned in Youli. These six are what the world reveres; examined closely, all were confused by profit and forced against their nature—their conduct was shameful.

“The so-called worthy men of the world: Bo Yi and Shu Qi resigned the lordship of Guzhu and starved on Mount Shouyang—their bones were never buried. Bao Jiao cultivated conduct and condemned the age, embraced a tree and died. Shentu Di remonstrated and was not heard; he carried a stone into the river and was eaten by fish and turtles. Jiezi Tui was utterly loyal, cut flesh from his thigh for Duke Wen of Jin to eat; later Wen turned against him, Tui left in anger, embraced a tree and was burned. Wei Sheng arranged to meet a woman under a bridge; she did not come, the water rose and he would not leave—he died holding the bridge pillar. These six are no different from dogs cut apart, pigs adrift on water, or men holding gourds begging food—all prized fame and treated death lightly, not caring to preserve life, the root.

“The so-called loyal ministers of the world, none surpass Prince Bi Gan and Wu Zixu. Zixu was sunk in the river; Bi Gan’s heart was cut out. These two the world calls loyal ministers, yet in the end the world mocked them. From this view, down to Zixu and Bi Gan, none are worth prizing.

“What you use to admonish me—if you speak of ghosts and spirits, perhaps I would not know; if you speak of human affairs, it is only this, all already heard and known.

“Now I tell you human feeling: the eyes wish to see beauty, the ears wish to hear sounds, the mouth wishes to distinguish flavors, the heart and blood and qi wish to be satisfied. The highest human lifespan is a hundred years, the middle eighty, the lowest sixty—aside from illness, emaciation, mourning, and worry, days when one can open the mouth and laugh are at most four or five in a month. Heaven and earth have no end, but human death has its term. To lodge a limited life in the infinite and suddenly pass away is no different from a fine horse flashing through a crack. Those who cannot make the mind joyful and preserve life do not understand the great Way.

“What you speak of is all that I discard. Go away quickly, run back, speak no more. Your Way is hurried and grasping—affairs of deceit and artifice; it cannot preserve the true root. What is there to discuss!”

Confucius bowed twice, hurried out, mounted the carriage and took the reins—the reins slipped from his hands three times. His eyes were blank and saw nothing; his face was like dead ash. He leaned on the front bar, head bowed, unable to draw breath. Returning to the east gate of Lu, he met Liu Xiaji. Liu Xiaji said: “These days I have not seen you for some time; your carriage looks as if from a long journey—could you have gone to see Dao Zhi?” Confucius looked up to heaven and sighed: “Yes.” Liu Xiaji said: “Did Dao Zhi, as I said before, go against your wishes?” Confucius said: “I was like one without illness who burns moxa on himself—rushing to stroke the tiger’s head and comb the tiger’s whiskers, and barely escaped the tiger’s mouth.”

Guo Xiang’s note explains that when one removes someone by aligning with what the multitude wishes to eliminate, even a tyrant like King Zhou of Shang can be removed; when one does not align with the multitude and acts only from private intent, not even Robber Zhi can be brought under control.

Lu Huiqing’s note observes that Confucius and Robber Zhi stand at the two extremes of good and evil, facing each other as auspicious and inauspicious are overcome by the right path. All change under Heaven is properly fulfilled when it returns to unity; when sides merely oppose one another and cannot merge into one, neither can prevail over the other. Consider Robber Zhi’s refusal of Confucius: those in the world who are unbenevolent and chase profit speak in the same way—how could one argue with them? Those who cultivate the inner life but cannot wholly cast off sagehood, wisdom, benevolence, and righteousness become nothing more than the opposite pole of crafty profit-seeking. Therefore the perfected person (zhiren) knows that good and evil differ only slightly, and neither praises Yao nor condemns Jie, forgets both sides, and transforms within the Great Dao (Da Dao), returning to the original state before anything existed. This is the utmost of the heart-and-mind and the substance of the Dao. The text does not state this plainly but puts it in the mouths of Confucius and Robber Zhi, because direct statement is hard to grasp; hence the repeated disputation, to bring the real situation to light.

Lin Yidu’s note holds that when sages first spoke, their aim was to support teaching and transformation; once the age changed, abuses arose. The substance of benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and filial piety was already invisible, and what people practiced was only what suited the fashion to win fame and profit. Zhuangzi uses Confucius and Robber Zhi as a parable to criticize the traces left by the sages. Yu, Tang, King Wen, and King Wu had already followed the traces of Yao and Shun; figures such as Boyi, Shuqi, Bao Jiao, Shentu Di, Jiezi Tui, Bi Gan, and Wu Zixu learned only the one-sided practices of the sages—the more conspicuous the traces, the heavier the harm. This is what Zhuangzi deeply deplored. The discussion opens with Confucius and Robber Zhi alone because they occupy the two poles of good and evil and stand in perfect opposition. Zhuangzi’s parables are like the Book of Changes setting up images to clarify meaning: the apt reader should grasp his intent to correct these abuses, and not be bound by the letter of the text or by outward traces.

Chen Bixu (Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan, style name Bixuzi) comments: Worldly people hold life cheap and willingly walk toward death—how is that different from dogs and pigs being butchered and dismembered, fleeing in resentment? They are also like someone holding a ladle and endlessly pouring from one vessel to another: what they seek is only posthumous fame, yet they obstruct the life that would nourish their plain, original nature. Those who chase external things fear that their name will not be praised in a lifetime; they would rather lose their lives than turn back. Those who follow their inner inclinations pursue ease while alive, take that as understanding, and also let life pass naturally without adornment. The enduring vista of heaven and earth and the brightness of sun and moon are inexhaustible; people only lodge their fleeting years and suddenly cut-off breath within them, yet cannot release their minds to live at ease. Instead they torment body and spirit to seek fame after death—thus they turn away from the plain ancient Way. Therefore although Robber Zhi was fierce and violent, where his words were right, even Confucius (Zhongni) could not refute him.

Lin Xiyi (Yizhai) oral explication: “Yongquan” (Springing Fountain) stands for vigorous, abundant qi. “Piaofeng” (whirling wind) means light and swiftly rising. Yu’s “pian ku” (one-sided withering) means his hands and feet were worn to calluses and his body was worn and impaired. “Zha qu” (torn dog) and “liu shi” (boiled pig) mean offering one’s own body to death, like a dog or a pig. “Li” (clinging) means attachment—being stuck on reputation; “bu nian ben” (not minding the root) means losing one’s original, authentic nature. “Ji” is the same word as “ji” (to draw water); “qi wu” simply means “there is none.”

Chu Boxiu’s overview: When a father cannot instruct his son and an elder brother cannot guide his younger brother, that is a failure of human relations. When someone rampages through the world, invading and oppressing without end, that is the people’s misfortune. When Confucius sought to transform the world through dao, de, ren, and yi, and all gathered like clouds and followed like shadows, yet could not reach Robber Zhi and instead was cornered and shamed—that is the sage’s misfortune. Still, Confucius is like the sun and moon: he merely happened to meet an inauspicious star (e yao) and was briefly troubled by baleful qi (li qi)—what real harm is done? The passage’s point is that unless one sets the extremes of good and evil side by side and does not judge only by outward traces, one cannot say everything or make the meaning fully clear; the line between sage and madman lies precisely here. Confucius first lays out three kinds of conduct and uses the lowest to admonish—much as the parable of the three swords admonishes King Wen of Zhao. Read closely, Robber Zhi’s speech, though contentious, is not wholly without sense; one should not dismiss it entirely because of who speaks. Yet those arguments see only outer behavior and miss the inner mind, so their judgments part company. This chapter’s language is forceful and rushing, like a torrent—hard to stem or to cap with commentary. That is why Guo Xiang only sketched the gist beneath the three related chapters, leaving the reasoning to speak for itself. Readers should not let the rhetoric alone distort the underlying intent.

Lexical notes: “Shu hu” should be read as “kou” (the phonetic gloss is kou-gou type). “Zhimu zhi guan” is a cap woven from tender bark. “Feng yi” is a garment sewn under the arm; “da mei” is the dan yi, an unlined robe with wide sleeves. To “zha” is to expose the corpse in dismemberment; “liu” means to boil in cooking. “Li ming” should be understood as “li ming” (clinging to profit and name).

Zi Zhang (a disciple of Confucius) asked Man Goude: Why do you not cultivate moral conduct? Without conduct, others will not trust you; without trust, you will not be put to use; without being put to use, you gain no advantage. So when you look at reputation and reckon profit, benevolence and righteousness are what you truly ought to practice. Yet if you set fame and profit aside and question your own heart, can a scholar’s way of life be neglected even for a single day?

Man Goude said: People who feel no shame are often wealthy; people who win wide trust often rise to eminence. The largest share of fame and profit falls almost always to those who are shameless yet still able to make others believe in them. So from the angle of reputation and profit, being trusted is what counts as real. Set fame and profit aside and ask the heart—the scholar’s course should be to guard his innate nature.

Zi Zhang said: In the past Jie and Zhou were honored as Sons of Heaven and possessed all under heaven. Yet if you told a menial today, “You act like Jie and Zhou,” he would flush with shame and refuse it in his heart, because such conduct is beneath even a petty person’s esteem. Confucius and Mozi, when they were poor, were mere commoners. Yet if you told a prime minister today, “You act like Confucius or Mozi,” he would change expression and say he is not their equal—so the scholar’s worth is indeed real. Thus one may hold the rank of Son of Heaven and still not be truly noble; one may sink to commoner status and still not be truly base. The distinction between noble and base lies in the quality of one’s conduct.

Man Goude said: Petty thieves are arrested, while great robbers become feudal lords—and in a feudal lord’s gate you find so-called men of righteousness. Long ago Duke Huan of Qi killed his elder brother and took his sister-in-law into his household, yet Guan Zhong served him as minister. Tian Chang of Qi murdered his ruler and stole the state, yet Confucius accepted his gifts. In discussion they despise such men; in action they defer to them. Word and deed clash in the heart—is that not deeply perverse? Therefore an old text says: Who is wicked, who is fine? The successful lead; the failed follow behind.

Zi Zhang said: If you do not speak of moral conduct, intimacy and distance have no order, noble and base have no principle, elder and younger have no sequence—how then are the five norms and six stations (the full web of human relations and ranks) to be distinguished?

Man Goude said: Yao put his eldest son to death; Shun exiled his younger brother born of the same mother—did they keep the order of near and far? Tang banished Jie; King Wu of Zhou attacked Zhou of Yin—was there principle in noble and base? Wang Ji was made heir apparent, yet the Duke of Zhou killed his elder brother—was there sequence in elder and younger? The Ru (Confucian) teachings are mostly ornament and pretense; the Moists advocate universal love—can the five norms and six stations still be kept clear?

Moreover, you strive precisely for name; I strive precisely for profit. The reality of name and profit accords neither with reason nor clarifies the Dao. Day after day I dispute with you before Wuyue (a figure whose name suggests “no binding constraint”): the petty person dies for wealth, the gentleman dies for name. The causes by which they alter their true feelings and change their innate nature differ, yet in casting aside what they ought to do and giving their lives for what they ought not, they are the same. Therefore it is said: Do not act the petty person—return and follow your innate nature. Do not act the gentleman—comply with the natural principle. Whether crooked or straight, turn toward the utmost of what is naturally so; face the four directions and wax or wane with the times. Whether right or wrong, hold to the pivot that turns in a circle; alone fulfill your own intent and wander with the Dao. Do not twist and shift your conduct; do not deliberately achieve benevolence and righteousness—or you will lose what you truly ought to do. Do not rush after riches; do not give your body for success—or you will abandon your innate nature.

Bigan had his heart cut out; Wu Zixu had his eyes gouged out—calamities brought by loyalty. Zhi Gao stepped forward to prove his father guilty; Wei Sheng kept his pledge and drowned—misfortunes brought by trustworthiness. Bao Jiao stood embracing a tree until he withered; Shen Sheng was slandered yet would not clear himself—disasters brought by integrity. Confucius never saw his mother; Kuang Zhang would not see his father—errors of righteousness. These stories were handed down from earlier ages and praised in later times. People took such men as scholars, demanding upright words and resolute deeds—so they met disaster and ran into harm.

Guo Xiang’s commentary states that this chapter teaches that if one single-mindedly exalts outward conduct, conduct turns affected; if one single-mindedly elevates the scholar’s role, scholars turn hypocritical. One should therefore hold external behavior and scholarly titles lightly, so as to preserve the authentic nature within—only then is conduct truly lofty and the scholar truly worthy.

Lu Huiching’s commentary states that good and evil are paired opposites, which is why Confucius could not reform Robber Zhi; fame and profit are paired opposites, which is why Zi Zhang could not overcome Man Goude. Hence Man Goude debated with Zi Zhang before Wu Yue. Zi Zhang treated the pursuit of stipend as learning and knew only reputation; Man Goude knew only profit; Wu Yue was one who had awakened to the great Dao and could be trusted. Doing evil and seeking profit, people call a petty person; doing good and seeking fame, people call a gentleman—this is from the human perspective. From the perspective of Heaven’s Way, the human world’s gentlemen are, in Heaven’s eyes, petty people. If one follows what is natural and accords with Heaven’s principle, gentleman and petty person can no longer be distinguished. When bend and straight are both measured against Heaven’s central standard, there is no fixed bend or straight; when one looks toward the four quarters and shifts with the waxing and waning of fortune, even while dwelling at the center one does not treat “the center” as an unchanging fixed point. That the Dao can reach up and down and through the four directions, opening everywhere without limit, is precisely for this reason. Yes and no both return to the same inexhaustible source; grasp the pivot that turns in a circle, and nothing cannot be met. Alone fulfilling one’s own intent, roaming together with the Dao, one then handles affairs with ease and deliberation—and often succeeds. All of this is the path that leads toward the natural. From “do not depart from your own way of acting” through “you will discard your inborn nature,” the “Heaven” here means one’s own original nature—that is, not abandoning the natural through artificiality. Loyalty, faithfulness, integrity, and righteousness are what the world calls reputation and good conduct, yet none of them can escape calamity. The world knows that profit and evil are burdens, but does not understand that fame and goodness likewise are not the Dao—therefore Wu Yue’s discourse especially stresses this point.

Lin Yidu (Yidu), a scholar who commented on the Zhuangzi, holds that Zizhang (Zhuan Sunshi, a disciple of Confucius) imitated Dayu’s gait and Shun’s bearing—giving the impression of merely treading in the sages’ footprints. Zhuangzi opposed clinging to the outward traces left by sages and used this situation to develop his argument.

The name Mang Goude (“Fully Obtained by Hook or Crook”) makes his character obvious at a glance. What is called xing (conduct) is virtue that others can see. When people act in such ways, others trust them, and benefit follows. Fame and profit arise from conduct that wins trust; that conduct in turn arises from yi (righteousness).

Zizhang’s discourse centers on yi, so viewed from the angle of fame and profit, he takes yi as what is truly right. If one sets aside fame and profit and returns to the root, the scholar’s cultivation of personal conduct cannot be neglected even for a day. One who cultivates conduct keeps a sense of shame about his actions and values brevity in speech. Mang Goude says: those without shame grow rich; those skilled at winning trust become eminent. Here “much trust” (duo xin) means using many words to make others believe—not having genuine inner trustworthiness. Lacking shame, one grabs wealth whenever it appears; “much trust” means polishing one’s rhetoric to obtain things. On this view, cultivating conduct is inferior to managing one’s words. If one abandons fame and profit and looks inward, the scholar’s conduct amounts only to guarding one’s innate nature while failing to understand human affairs. Those in the world who rush after fame and profit often use human desires to extinguish their natural endowment—hence he speaks as he does.

Zizhang says: Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang lacked virtue, and even petty men were ashamed to take them as models; Confucius and Mozi had virtue, and the honored yielded to them. The distinction between noble and base lies not in whether one is poor or prominent, but in whether conduct is good or bad.

Mang Goude adds: a petty thief who steals goods is punished; a great thief who steals a state becomes a feudal lord whom no one can control—and he steals along with him the sage’s cleverness, benevolence, and righteousness. In former times Duke Huan of Qi and Tian Heng were such great thieves, yet Guan Zhong served one as minister and Confucius accepted gifts from the other. Judging by their words, people despised them as robbers; judging by their actions, they received ritual and addressed them as lords. The two attitudes clash in the heart—is this not self-contradiction? He also cites lost ancient books to the effect that one need not worry about good or bad conduct but take success alone as supreme—so regicide and usurpation need not be unprofitable.

Zizhang replies: if one does not cultivate conduct, there is no order among noble and base, close and distant—how can the bonds of ruler and subject, father and son be maintained? Mang Goude then cites sages and worthies who violated human relations and lost proper order as proof, and holds that seeking fame and seeking profit alike fail to accord with the Dao. Each side clings to one extreme; they dispute daily and cannot decide. What is called yue (a binding agreement) is like the written contract in a lawsuit—without such evidence, one need not rely on it to settle victory and defeat. Gentleman and petty man differ in seeking fame versus profit, yet in abandoning the root and chasing the branches they are the same.

From “Do not act as a petty man” through “you are about to lose your innate nature,” wu yue (no binding agreement) is used to clarify the foregoing and offer admonition. “Distorting conduct to fulfill yi” describes the fault of chasing reputation; “running toward wealth and following success” describes the fault of chasing profit. Only when there is nothing to pursue and one accords with nature does one truly arrive. From Bi Gan’s disembowelment downward, examples are given of ancients who suffered disaster because of loyalty, trustworthiness, and holding fast to the Way—serving as a warning.

Bi Xu (Song-dynasty Daoist Chen Jingyuan, styled Bi Xuzi) annotates: When scholars deal with the world, they must first solidly establish their own trustworthy virtue; only after that comes appointment to office. When the principle of appointment is clear, one may speak of emolument and rank; when emolument and rank are clear, reputation rises and the Way and its norms become manifest. If one sets aside fame and profit and turns the heart to self-examination, one cannot for a moment discard one's own virtue.

The annotation marks that xin here is read as shen (self-extension)—the same below. This refers to how ordinary scholars meet the world: enduring humiliation to extend themselves and grasp thick fame and profit; even when food and clothing are coarse, they chatter on and will not stop. If one can truly cast off fame and profit and reflect inward, there is no need to polish the exterior—only hold to Heaven's mandate and wait for what comes.

Xia Jie and King Zhou of Shang had rank without virtue; even petty men were ashamed to stand beside them. Confucius and Mozi had no rank but had virtue; ministers and grandees sincerely admired them. This is judging virtue alone, not status. Confucian speech is slick and not worth imitating; Mohists force themselves to meet the world's emergencies—how can they clearly distinguish the ways of ruler and minister, father and son, husband and wife? Today's scholars either drown in reputation or bury themselves in profit; both violate constant principle and have not yet escaped these bonds.

From "I am willing to join you" onward, all are words of the wuyue speaker (one not bound by worldly agreements): what one does is left to oneself; what one does not do accords with things outside. Not acting for profit is simply returning to the natural; not acting for fame is simply following Heaven's principle. One only helps complete your inborn allotment and limit; crooked and straight can be set aside and no longer counted. Nothing blocks the present moment; in office or in hiding one has something to hold to. Holding to one's own discourse and not being broken by right and wrong is therefore called yuanji (a pivot that turns in a circle without fixating on one side). When the mind does not cling to outer things, one can complete oneself alone and wander with the Great Dao.

If virtue is easily changed, one chases the external world; if the Way and its norms are turned into fixed achievements, true nature is obstructed and one loses what one originally meant to do—yet Zi Zhang (a disciple of Confucius) took such conduct as practicing the Way. Rushing after wealth speeds disaster; seeking success mostly ends in failure—thus one abandons Heaven's mandate. Once one gains something by shameless means, it is taking the shameless as further self-extension.

Yizhai (the literary name of the Southern Song writer Lin Xiyi) explains that Zi Zhang (a disciple of Confucius) held that if one seeks fame and profit, one ought to cultivate benevolence and righteousness (ren and yi); if one casts off fame and profit, one goes against one’s own heart and can no longer find joy in oneself. Once one has fixed on seeking them, practicing ren and yi becomes unavoidable. What is meant by “speaking much in a trustworthy manner” is saying many things that seem credible in order to win glory and prominence.

Man Ghoude (a figure in the “Robber Zhi” chapter of the Zhuangzi) held that people who seek fame and profit today are merely deceiving. To abandon fame and profit, return to the heart, and only follow what the heart desires is still a kind of natural simplicity and is not artificial posturing.

When the truth of words and deeds clash in the heart, it means the two cannot match each other. Success and failure, beginning and end, also fail to align: in power one is a man of righteousness, out of power one becomes a usurper or villain. This means conduct framed as ren and yi is entirely fraudulent, not genuine naturalness.

The “five reckonings” are the Five Constants (ren, yi, li, zhi, xin), and the “six positions” are the Three Bonds (ruler and minister, father and son, husband and wife).

You take the reputation of ren and yi as your gain; I only seek profit and do not borrow that hypocritical label. The point is that neither reputation nor profit is the real Dao. “No constraint” (wu yue) is used as a metaphor for the natural; if one follows the natural, there is no split between gentleman and petty man, or between crooked and straight.

Seen in comparison, these are all doctrines in which the natural reaches its utmost. The four directions correspond to the four seasons; coming and going and change are all one qi.

Upholding the “pivot of the round” (yuanji—the Zhuangzi image of turning with things and not clinging to right and wrong) leaves no right and wrong; going one’s own way at will can still calmly accord with the great Dao.

“Turning away” means turning away from the great Dao; “achieving righteousness” means using ren and yi to build reputation and achievement. Wu and wu (both written forms meaning “do not”) are the same: both mean “do not.” If one insists that upright words must be acted on and forcibly demands conformity with loyalty, trustworthiness, integrity, and righteousness, harm is sure to follow.

The general sense is: using ornament and fraud to seek profit and advancement is not as good as yielding to the natural. This is meant to correct Mencius’s distinction between heavenly nobility (dignity in virtue—ren, yi, loyalty, trustworthiness, and the like) and human nobility (rank and emolument such as duke, minister, and grandee).

Conduct is the outward manifestation of yi (righteousness); being trusted and gaining benefit are the proof that conduct has taken effect. Yi arises from within and shows outward; trust and benefit follow from without. Therefore, to examine yi by name and profit is a valid approach.

Zi Zhang’s view was: if one does not speak of name and profit on the lips yet turns inward in the heart to seek them, the scholar-official cannot cease practicing yi for a single day. Practicing yi is what scholars ought to do; name and profit are merely incidental arrivals and need not be counted.

Relying on much talk to win others’ trust is originally a path to wealth and rank; the shameless take this as correct. If the heart does not set store by name and profit and one turns only inward, then the person who practices yi merely clings alone to innate nature and cannot connect with the world. This is Man Goude’s position. Zi Zhang belonged to Confucius’s followers; Goude belonged to Dao Zhi’s followers—opposite sides, as one would expect.

That even slaves are ashamed to be named with Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang, while ministers and chancellors dare not compare themselves to Confucius and Mozi, shows how precious virtue is; that petty thieves are arrested while great robbers become feudal lords shows how delightful profit can be. Each side cites ancient sages to prove the other one-sided, so neither can be free of fault.

Unable to settle their dispute, Man Goude had once argued with Zi Zhang before Wuyue. On petty men chasing wealth—through the end of this chapter there is no judgment from Wuyue; he only points out that both cling to one side and have not yet accorded with the Dao. Better to forget good and bad in the heart, cling to nothing, follow nature, make no distinction between gentleman and petty man, and let each attain the rectitude of their nature—why wrangle over right and wrong, inner and outer? Thus each achieves completion alone without leaning on external things, and can wander with the Dao without losing what is genuine.

To distort natural conduct in pursuit of the reputation of “yi,” or to rush after wealth and profit to seek success, is to extinguish heavenly principle and drown in material desire. From Bi Gan’s disembowelment downward, the examples given precisely expose the error of one-sided devotion and pursuit, which in the end cannot escape calamity; yet scholars still take such words as orthodox and insist on acting accordingly, suffering harm to body and life without awakening—truly pitiable.

The above is the account given in juan 95 of the Nanhua zhenjing yihai zuanwei.

Nanhuazhenjing Yihai Zuanwei is a Song-dynasty commentary on the Zhuangzi compiled by Chu Boxiu. The passage below comes from the Miscellaneous Chapters, “Dao Zhi.”

Footless (a name suggesting “never knowing enough”) asked Zhihe (a name suggesting “understanding harmony”): “Is there anyone who does not chase reputation and run after profit? Whoever is rich, others attach themselves to him; attachment leads them to defer, and deference leads them to honor him. Making people defer and honor oneself is precisely the path to long life, a settled body, and a cheerful mind—yet you alone pay no heed. Is that lack of wisdom, knowing what is right but lacking the strength to act, or clinging to the correct Way and refusing to let go?”

Zhihe said: “People like that today treat everyone who shares their age and hometown as extraordinary sages beyond the common run. It is only because they have no inner master and no clear view that they constantly scrutinize past and present circumstances and distinctions of right and wrong, and drift with the world’s changes. The world throws away what is most precious (life) and abandons what is most honored (the great Dao), doing only what they wish. To speak of long life, bodily ease, and joy in those terms—is that not wildly off the mark? Agonizing illness and comfortable ease cannot be fully judged in the body; terror and delight cannot be clearly seen in the mind. They know only to act, not why they act. So even if one is honored as Son of Heaven and owns the realm, one still cannot escape disaster.”

Footless said: “Wealth is endlessly advantageous to a person: it can exhaust splendor and push power to the limit—what even a perfected person cannot reach and a sage cannot achieve. They borrow others’ courage to display might, others’ schemes to seem sharp-sighted, others’ virtue to win a name for worthiness; though they do not hold a whole state, their authority is like that of a lord and father. Color, sound, flavor, and power—people’s hearts need no teaching to love them, bodies need no imitation to rest in them. Liking and disliking, avoiding and drawing near need no instructor: that is human nature. Even if everyone under heaven denounced me, who could refuse these things?”

Zhihe said: “The wise act in a way that follows the people without overstepping what is fitting, so they are content and do not contend; with nothing sought in the heart, they do not grasp. Those who feel lack go seeking; they scramble everywhere yet do not think themselves greedy. Those who feel they have enough decline and yield; they could renounce the realm yet do not think themselves incorruptible. The truth of integrity and greed is not forced by outward things—you must turn back and examine your own capacity. Yao and Shun as emperors could be at peace—not because they showered benevolence on the world, but because they did not let a fine reputation harm life. Shan Juan and Xu You received the throne yet would not take it—not empty modesty, but refusing to let worldly affairs harm themselves. They all sought benefit and avoided harm; the world therefore called them worthy, and reputation could naturally arise—they were not deliberately chasing fame.”

Footless said: “If one must cling to reputation, torment the body, cut off what is sweet, and dress and eat sparingly just to keep alive—that is no more than someone long ill and trapped, yet unable to die.”

Zhihe said: “What is level and moderate is good fortune; excess and surplus are harm—all things are so, and wealth especially. Today the rich fill their ears with bells, drums, pipes, and flutes; their mouths with meat and wine—stirring the mind and forgetting their proper work: that may be called confusion. Drowning in surging, resentful qi, like climbing under a heavy load: that may be called toil. Seeking comfort through greed for wealth, seeking power until drained dry; sinking in idleness, growing fat and blocked in qi: that may be called disease. For wealth and gain they pile riches high as a wall beside the ear yet do not know to step back; qi is full yet they will not release: that may be called shame. Wealth hoarded unused, clutched tight to the chest and not released, heart full of grief yet always wanting more: that may be called worry. Within, they suspect robbery and extortion; without, they fear thieves—barricading windows at home, daring not walk alone outside: that may be called fear. Confusion, toil, disease, shame, worry, and fear—these six are the greatest harms under heaven, yet people all forget them and do not look. When disaster comes, they would spend mind and scatter wealth just to buy one day’s peace—and cannot. Consider reputation: it cannot be seen. Consider profit: it cannot be grasped. Winding the mind and wearing down the body to fight for these—is that not delusion?”

Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that this chapter teaches that only those who know satisfaction can long feel truly full.

Lü Huiqing’s commentary says that Wuzú treats wealth as the way to settle the body and please the mind. Zhihe, by contrast, holds that if someone takes being born in the same time and place as others yet despised by the world as “wealth,” then in his heart he has no proper master: he merely changes with the vulgar tide, discards what is most precious and most honored, and busies himself with worldly affairs—thereby losing the true root of life and nature. To call that settling the body and pleasing the mind is far wide of the mark. Grief and ease do not truly mirror on the body; alarm and joy do not truly mirror in the mind—so one only knows that one is acting, not why one acts. This is what was meant by using the pearl of Sui Hou to shoot at a sparrow a thousand ren high: even the most exalted and richest are not free from disaster, let alone those who merely rest content with money. Wuzú thinks everyone wants wealth and no one can refuse. Zhihe replies that the discontented will not yield even a field boundary, so they scramble everywhere and do not feel greedy; the contented do not treat the realm as their own, so they can abandon it and still not think they are guarding against greed. The substance of guarding against greed is simply turning back to examine one’s own measure. “Measure” means that vessels differ in size and one cannot assume human nature is all one mold. Once a person sinks into the momentum of relying on money to be proud and full, he pampers a plump body and takes it for granted, unaware of nurturing life. The harm of wealth comes down to this: when fame is sought and not gained, profit sought and not obtained, the mind is entangled and the body exhausted in struggle—still only knowing what one does, not why. Confucius could not transform Robber Zhi; Zizhang could not subdue Goude. Goude took uprightness from Wuyue, yet Wuzú was persuaded by Zhihe. Clearly good and evil, fame and profit, cannot overcome each other; only virtue and the Way can.

Lin Yidu’s commentary says that Wuzú is greedy and ignorant of his place, so he thinks no one does not want name and profit. Others cling to his wealth and attach themselves; by staying below others he can nurture his own mind and so feel joy. He challenges: Are you indifferent to this? Is it that wisdom cannot reach it, or strength cannot carry it out—or that you hold to principle and drop greedy desire? Zhihe answers: Today those who love profit and seek wealth have no right master in the heart. They need not enjoy wealth themselves; as long as they are contemporaries and fellow townsmen of the rich, they fancy themselves transcending the world. That is changing with the vulgar, leaving the most precious life, abandoning the most honored Dao, and acting only by human contrivance, unable to follow heaven’s spontaneity. Is that not far from the Way? Feelings stirred by outer things are not originally fixed in the body or rooted in the mind. What people do is the preference for deliberate action; what makes it so is wuwei (non-action) that yet leaves nothing undone. Because people do not know wuwei, even at the extreme of wealth and rank they still cannot escape calamity. Wuzú adds that wealth can dominate others: enjoying all the realm’s delights and wielding all its power—what sages cannot reach, virtue cannot surpass; the brave bolster his might, the clever sharpen his sight, he borrows others’ virtue to pose as worthy, and without rank he is august like a father-lord. That is the rich man’s case. Sound, color, flavor, and power are desires common to people; they need no learning—they are expressions of nature. Who in the realm can refuse? Zhihe says again: the action of the wise follows the people’s movement without violating law. Law is the law in the heart. Therefore to know sufficiency is to have nothing to fight over; wuwei is to have nothing to seek. Today the discontented demand on every side; when they win they do not feel greedy. Those with surplus may receive the realm and decline, and do not feel they are guarding against greed. The name of guarding greed shows outside, but the reality comes from within; turning back to mirror the heart is enough to see clearly. Not using rank to humiliate others preserves rank long; not using wealth to toy with others preserves wealth long. Seeing disaster in what is subtle, thinking again and again, fearing harm to one’s nature—they decline and do not accept. It is not to invite reputation, yet the realm itself bestows name. Yao and Shun’s abdication, Xu You and Shan Juan’s refusal—all were seeking benefit and avoiding harm, not intending to raise reputation, yet reputation arose of itself. Wuzú says again: what Zhihe honors is clinging to reputation, tormenting the body and cutting off sweetness—is that any different from long illness and confinement, merely not yet dead? Zhihe says: In the realm’s affairs, evenness is blessing, surplus is harm—wealth especially. Today the rich are deluded by outer cravings, forget their proper work, blocked by unrighteous qi (vital energy)—like climbing high with a heavy load: truly toilsome. They use greedy wealth and manipulated power to soothe the inner mind and exhaust thought; in quiet leisure they sink in indulgence; wanting a plump body they rely on bullying. What they seek and cannot obtain becomes sickness. Wealth piled like a wall, clung to and not released—disgrace is near. The ancients stored grain and goods to guard against famine and disease in the community, to relieve the multitude and complete virtue. Today the rich amass greatly without use, yet endlessly seek more; worry knots in the mind—nothing they do not desire; outwardly they prepare against disaster—nothing they do not guard. Wealth is the realm’s greatest bane, yet they all forget it and cannot perceive it. When the calamity of robbers comes and they wish to give everything away, the truth of life is already spent and stored goods are gone—they cannot return even for one day to humble ease. Yet they still coil the mind in deep schemes and stake the body against disaster—is that not delusion?

Chen Jingyuan (style Bixu) says this chapter further explains the two before it. Those who seek name in the world want honor; those who chase profit want wealth—these two easy paths: who lacks such intent? Some are dim in insight and do not know; some know but their strength slackens. Investigating principle without reckless seeking, entrusting affairs to fate without grasping—what attachment to wealth and rank? Vulgar people, sharing time and place with the rich, boast that they surpass others; those with a master within are not altered by things; those who penetrate past and present are not shaken by events. Nothing is heavier than the body; nothing is heavier within the body than life. Yet now they flow with the vulgar and change with the age, discard the precious and abandon the honored, and do those deeds—then talk of the way of settling the body and pleasing the mind: how can that be near? In poverty they are alarmed; in wealth they rejoice—ignorant of the root, proud of the traces. What people do is the action of seeking name and profit; they do not know that wealth and rank have their natural completion. Those who abandon what completes naturally and insist on seeking can be known not to escape disaster. Ants in an anthill gather only where it stinks; a scholar in coarse clothes is ashamed to approach food offered with a sneer. Fish in rivers and lakes forget each other; people in the Way forget each other—why rely on outer things? The unrestrained rejoice at sound and color; the proud and luxurious feel the body at ease in power—human nature; who would not want it? Moving with the people is not for oneself; not violating law is few desires and little selfishness. “Contending on four sides” means campaigning in the four directions with intent to settle the people—not greed for treasure, so not called greedy. When merit is complete and name established, yielding the seat to one who has the Way is not taken as purifying oneself. Prince Sou fled into the cinnabar cave; Yan He fed cattle and declined appointment—is that inviting reputation? Shun yielded the realm to Shan Juan, who plowed and never looked back—is that raising reputation? Those insatiably greedy take plainness for illness and solitude for hardship, not knowing that ease is blessing and surplus is harm. Only wealth brings disaster fastest, more cruelly than other things—yet the world does not understand. From the view of plainness and solitude, bells, drums, wine, and food disturb the work of the Way; excess of fine food breeds much toil; using power to seek comfort sinks into bodily illness; seeing gold and snatching without regard is worse than punishment and shame. Piling up without satiety, worry that will not drop. When disaster comes and the body falls, one only wishes the hoard would quickly scatter. By then true nature is spent and goods exhausted—could one again hawk and hunt above Cai Ze or hear cranes at Huating?

Lin Xiyi (style Yizhai) says: “The people here” means the rich; there is nothing beyond reach in their conduct. With no master in the heart, losing right nature, assimilated to the vulgar tide—that is not someone else, it is themselves. They scan past and present only for their own advantage. The principle of heaven that is most heavy and most honored is entirely discarded; they only do what they call seeking wealth and rank. Is that the virtue of settling the body and pleasing the mind? What they do is artificial; what makes it so is the principle of heaven. Abandoning heaven’s principle and not following it—even Confucius did not escape disaster, let alone lesser men. The rich enjoy delights to the limit and use power to the limit; even perfected persons and worthies may fall short. They command others; everyone says their strength can dominate outer things—as if money could move the gods. Even if the realm thinks me wrong, how can I decline? That is speech put in the mouth of the greedy. The wise act on the basis that the people equally receive from heaven, and dare not violate law. When virtue is full in oneself there is nothing to contend; action does not fall on others, and in seeking there is no participation. “Four sides” means the four directions. The substance of greed and guarding greed lies not in outward pursuit but in seeking heaven’s principle and law as measure, turning back to examine oneself. Not using a fine name to harm the body; possessing the realm yet not holding it as one’s own—worthy name returning to oneself without guilt—is not intentionally raising reputation. Here again Yao, Shun, and Xu You are all spoken of from the good side. Wuzú thinks: if one must seek name and not wealth and rank, one only torments the body in vain; though alive, it is like long sickness and confinement, merely not yet dead. Evenness is blessing.